Stella Attraversato
by DianaLecter
Summary: This is me, not being dead. No, your eyes aren't deceiving you. This story has been updated. Clarice Starling, haunted by her past, is sent to adminster a prison transfer in Florence, Colorado. After Silence of the Lambs. Departs from canon.
1. The Screaming of the Lambs

Author's Note: This idea came to me after watching _Unsolved Mysteries _(damn addictive show) the other day. Consequentially, the character of Clark McCallister and the details of his arrest are based on actuality. I made everything else up.   
  
My endless thanks to Helene and Nikita for looking over this for me.   
  
Disclaimer: The characters herein with the exception of Clark McCallister are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission for entertainment purposes and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
  


**Stella-Attraversato **

  
  
Author: DianaLecter (mischalecter@hotmail.com)  
Rating: NR (as of now)  
Timeline: Three and a half years after _The Silence of the Lambs—_ departs from canon  
Summary: Special Agent Clarice Starling is sent to administer a prisoner transfer and discovers that negotiations are never short.   
  
  
  
Chapter One   
  
  
Memories a thousand years old came to life with a flicker of the subconscious. Things she forgot she knew—things she didn't care to remember. Though rightfully, Clarice Starling lived in the mindset that she knew everything that had occurred that night. However, it seemed with the twist and turn of age that additional diminutive details returned, distorted but as valid as ever.   
  
Knowing that she would remember very little of her nightly visions when she awoke was only temporarily gratifying. The mind was a funny thing like that. It had the ability to draw one back to a torturous event that happened eons ago, and similarly lacked the will to summon the occurrences of a prior week, or on a particularly groggy morning.   
  
It wasn't right. Wasn't that night supposed to behind her? Hadn't she already secured her sanctuary? She had thought so, watching Jame Gumb take the last breaths of life. Someone obviously didn't agree with her.  
  
Thankfully, Starling never had to dread what she faced when she awoke. Sleeping subjected her to the dark side of her understanding and reality snapped it back. Perhaps that was the retribution of her sacrifice and dedication to saving the life that was supposed to banish all nightmares away forever. While she never doubted what she saw when she slept, she likewise scarcely recalled any of it. An isolated wail in the distance was the embodiment of a nightly reminiscence. The cold sweat she awoke in served as the only reinforcement she required for the knowledge of where the darkness had taken her.   
  
Some compensation. Cheap material in exchange for even cheaper satisfaction. Starling would never regret the actions that she undertook to guarantee a peaceful night, regardless of the consequences. There were other dreams, as well, but she supposed those were inevitable.  
  
It never ceased to amaze her how tangible these images felt. Now, she was wandering through the darkness, arms outstretched as she felt her way toward the barn. It was a path she had taken time and time again, and perhaps only with the knowledge of age did she find herself doubtful of her destination. However, despite where she pointed herself, she always found her way. It was a part of the curse, something that would never fully be behind her. There was a pen ahead of her, barely visible against the gloomy sky. Déjà vu and more tackled her unwilling, matured though still very young senses. This path was nearly twenty years behind her, and yet here she was, standing at the beginning again.   
  
And it always led her here. No matter how she tried to turn in the other direction, this was her supreme purpose. A place she could not shun from memory, no matter how desperately she tried.   
  
_Then something woke you. What woke you up? Did you dream? What was it? _  
  
Of course, that fastidious voice had only recently joined the nomadic festivities of her subliminal ramblings. Its incessant sounding caused the screaming to begin. Though never consistent in timing, Starling was surprised at how it still caused her to jump. How that familiar ache trembled through her reluctant body. A languid feeling came over her, one unwilling to run, one that demanded she return to the ranch. It was no use. She had stood here time and time before without any change to what was destined to occur.  
  
However, like so many times, when she turned the ranch was not there. It was only her bedroom. Starling could see her sleeping form and opened her mouth to scream herself awake, but no sound escaped.   
  
Then it was there, slicing a finish to the silent air in a wail that would never cease. That screaming! A familiar feeling of helplessness engulfed her. There was no more she could now than she could have then. She turned and directed herself to the pen, flinching as the neighing of frightened horses joined the wails already tainting the air. Familiar scents tackled her senses, things as minute as the scrape she had acquired on her knee the day before the momentous event rang back with all the pangs of practicality. Even as she blew gently in Hannah's nose, preparing for the escape, she knew it wasn't real. Merely a recollection of things long ago.   
  
There were new sensations as well. It was odd standing here with a defined grasp on everything that was to come. The sense of recognizing the paradox of dreams she worked herself into versus the horror of actuality. Still, that hardly hampered the same cold feelings of dread from creeping up her spine.   
  
_As you went off in the dark, could you hear the lambs back where the lights were? _  
  
The twelve lambs screaming in the distance remained with her longer than she remembered, perhaps by the power of suggestion. The more she stayed, the more these infinitesimal particulars attacked her defenses. Soon she would be able to outline the night sky exactly as it was—every constellation a child could remember etched tightly in her cranium.   
  
That was as far as it took her. She awoke promptly, drenched in sweat, not bothering to look at the clock. The dreams were becoming real again. Though as she banished sleep from her system, the remaining fragments of her dream bid her peace, she distantly heard a dying cry. Lingering Montana scents remained with her for a few seconds before finally drifting away. And though the hour was early, she did not consider revisiting sleep. It was routine now, a disturbing pattern that failed to disband. Despite numerous achievements, she was held back by what others would be quick to identify as shortcomings. Rather, in some perverse twist, the screaming of the lambs had intensified in the years since Buffalo Bill's death.   
  
Every night was the same—a restless toss on a rickety mattress before falling into a brief, troubled sleep. And sometime before 5:00 AM, she would wake with the distant calls of the unsaved victims screaming their incessant plight, knowing it would never be answered.  
  
It was something she couldn't fathom. Despite all that was accomplished, the risks and sacrifices she took to satisfy the aggrieved souls of those first that she could not save amounted to little. They were still there, kept alive by some part of her that refused to allow her to forget.  
  
Night after night, it was the same. No inconsistency in habit. Starling was denied the rest she so craved, subjected again and again to events irreversible, regardless of how many times relived. It was a shattering piece of her that was not permitted recess.   
  
This evening was no different. And while she never recalled all of the details, the screams were always the same. Starling had not understood the difference between soft and quiet until she ran out of synonyms. Though she had tried to recapture sleep initially, her attempts usually resulted in a battle for the sun to rise.  
  
Instead, her eyes focused on the clock, waiting for time to wear away. It was beginning to affect her in the reign of consciousness as well. Morning was inevitably approaching when the lambs broke through a façade of sleep and awareness, when it no longer mattered what time it was.  
  
Sleep was impracticable, consequentially leading to a long and bitterly hard day. However, this particular night demanded her alertness. The call came 4:57—fourteen minutes later. In her pivotal being between rest and reality, that was the one consistency that would remain with her in days to come. As soon as the digital apparatus announced another sixty-second duration, a shrill ring perturbed the air.  
  
Starling was tempted to let the machine get it, but her common sense persuaded her to reach for the phone. Though her number was unlisted, there had been a time or two when an unnamed insider sold it to the _Tattler _or some other trash tabloid for an undoubtedly inadequate fee. However, it had been a while since she received a caller who wanted personal details about her interactions with a madman in the depths of a cryptic Baltimore dungeon. With the passage of time, she wondered briefly if anyone even remembered her name.  
  
_Someone does, _she thought dryly, hesitating as she grasped the phone.   
  
Even that was debatable.  
  
Starling, irritated with herself, muttered something under her breath and answered. "Hello?" Though she had been awake for several minutes, she heard sleep in her voice.   
  
"Starling?" It was Crawford. Almost immediately, she felt an upheaval of tension vacate her shoulders. Whatever she had expected, she did not know, but it was not a moment for reflection.   
  
"Good morning, Mr. Crawford."  
  
"I'm sorry to call so early."  
  
"I was up." Wearily, she drew her legs over the side of the mattress and stood at her leisure. There was no point in lingering—she had known her rest was over since awakening. Remaining in bed would only make her more lethargic. "What's wrong?"  
  
"I got a call a few minutes ago. Clark McCallister is going to be transferred to the penitentiary in Florence, Colorado." Crawford sighed tryingly. "That incident last week really rattled everyone up. Now, he's agreed to go peacefully under one condition." There was a lengthy pause, inviting commentary but she could not find her voice. After an understanding moment, he continued. "McCallister requested that you handle the matter specifically. I tried to fight it, but Pearsall wants the move to go as smoothly as possible. Any other circumstance, and I'd consent." There was no definitive finale to the announcement, rather a second pause that pleaded for clarification. When she could offer nothing, Crawford asked softly, "Starling? You still there?"   
  
Some news had the affect of a cold shower, and despite circumstances, she had to admit that this wasn't altogether unexpected. McCallister had killed a fellow inmate the previous week when some renegade prison food grunge found its way onto his standard issue shoes. The story made all the papers as a solid reminder of the man's monstrosities.   
  
Starling required no such aide memoire. The years since graduation consisted of the never-ending struggle for her admittance into the Behavioral Science department, the place Crawford had made for her since the victorious conclusion of the Buffalo Bill case. However, her enemies in the Bureau, namely Paul Krendler and his cronies, were doing everything in their power to be sure such never happened.   
  
There were certain cases, however, that required her assistance. The prior year Crawford had called conference with her and Pearsall to inquire if he might borrow her for insight on a long unsolved case. Starling, naturally seeking any offer that nudged her closer to Behavioral Science, accepted instantly.   
  
Her approval was hasty but not unappreciated. The particulars were shared for their foible nature, almost clumsy in fashion but tightly linked. A seemingly random string of murders were suddenly being traced together in the search for a pattern. It seemed that for the past decade, a serial murderer had enjoyed traveling across the globe and simply killing anyone that struck his fancy. There was no consistency, no motive. The man killed because he enjoyed it. He defied every standard expectation of the modern day suspect. Crawford said once that while he thought they were dealing with a man, as female serial killers were rare, it would not surprise him if it turned out otherwise. The case in itself was too bizarre for anything to take him by storm.  
  
In ten years, the only hints of incriminating evidence were two fingerprints taken from one isolated crime scene.   
  
The spontaneity of the man's killings was in fact the only reliability that strewed them collectively. In months since his capture and conviction, the _Tattler _had yet to formulate a clever nickname, and had consequentially kept the reports on the matter relatively quiet.  
  
Clark McCallister was identified and captured at the Washington Dulles International Airport prior to reentering the country when he was questioned about his passport. Though Starling was acquainted and a believer of the old establishment that all serial murderers on a level craved capture, there had been one a time or two that strained the lines of common knowledge. To that day, she was unsure if she agreed Jame Gumb wished to be discovered and stopped before he succeeded in his woman suit, and she knew the madman interrogated to find Buffalo Bill was very much enjoying his freedom, wherever he was.   
  
In the time that it took Starling and a few select agents to arrive, airport security reported that McCallister, though notably aware of where they were leading him, remained calm throughout the process. If it was capture that he desired, then he had obtained it, and he submitted without struggle. When she first saw him, when their eyes connected as he was read his rights, she felt herself under scrutiny she had not experienced since standing in the presence of Dr. Hannibal Lecter.  
  
He had smiled at her and said, "Well, well…they certainly called the big dogs in for this one."  
  
Airport security officials were not so acute. McCallister's comment confused them and they had to ask one of the other agents his meaning after she led him to the squad car. Hardly anyone remembered her name, or her connection to the infamous cannibal.  
  
The trial was swift. McCallister eagerly pleaded guilty to all charges and was sentenced to execution by lethal injection for May 5, 1998. Until then, he would wait in the Washington Penitentiary and count down the hours left to live.   
  
When reporters questioned him as to his motives, he had left them with a chilling, _"Because it was fun." _It was obvious he enjoyed the publicity, but Starling doubted that it had ever been his intention to be captured. There was unsettling sincerity in his explanation, and while media attention was always enjoyable, she suspected he would have much preferred to remain at large and create those headlines until he tired of the practice, or died at his own accordance.  
  
She had only seen him twice: when she apprehended him and when he was sentenced. Both times he established eye contact and winked. The only words he said directly to her concerned the headlines she had had the displeasure of tolerating nearly four years before. In that, she saw he understood that his momentary fame would soon fall to nothingness. Even Hannibal The Cannibal was a dying name. Despite the numerous revivals made in the _Tattler, _his numerous atrocities were traded for more current headlines.   
  
"Starling?" Crawford's voice snapped her back to the present. "You still there?"  
  
She shook her head heavily. "Yes, Sir."   
  
"Can I tell Pearsall you'll comply without a fight? We don't want more trouble from McCallister."  
  
"Why did he ask for me? I don't understand."  
  
There was a groan and she heard the recliner Crawford was undoubtedly resting in wheeze under his weight. "Most likely because of who you are. When word gets out that Clarice Starling was requested specifically by a serial killer to directly deal with his transfer, the tabloids will—if you pardon the pun—eat you alive."  
  
She snickered. "He doesn't think that—"  
  
"Who knows what he thinks? He's not as smart as Lecter was, for sure…or rather, as smart as Lecter liked to _think _he was. McCallister might just want the publicity and thinks you're the key to it. In the end, it doesn't matter what he thinks. The media will create their own stories." Crawford groaned again, as if the burden had a larger influence on his shoulders. "I hate to do this to you."  
  
Starling knew he meant it. Despite everything, the Guru always seemed to want the best for her. Yes, he was masterful at manipulating her and everyone else to conform to his own desires, but the basis of their friendship was beyond the merit of student and teacher. He had long given up trying to bullshit her, which she appreciated. In the Bureau, he was the only one who had the courage to be thoroughly honest. If there was a deal to be made, he let her know first handedly.   
  
And, if he didn't, he was successful in covering wary tracks.   
  
"But," she said understandingly, "we don't have a choice, if we want him to go quietly. Do we? It's this or nothing."  
  
"I'm betting he could make things a lot more difficult for us if you don't agree." Crawford paused, considering. "If it's any compensation, I think Pearsall agreed to let you have the following week off. You've more than earned it. You need a vacation, Starling, and badly."  
  
"Where am I taking him again?"  
  
"The penitentiary in Florence, Colorado."  
  
She snickered audibly. "Florence, Colorado. Someone trying to be funny?"  
  
"I've wondered the same." Crawford's smile was perceptible. "It's one of the better alternatives, given the situation. The place was built in the good name of solitary confinement. Prisoners do everything in their cells. The man I spoke with told me that they only spend three hours a day interacting with their inmates, and the remaining twenty-one to themselves. McCallister should either enjoy it or crack under the pressure." He sighed. "In many ways, with the research I've done, it makes the Baltimore Asylum sound like the Ritz. In fact, a group of radicals have been protesting since it opened that it's borderline cruel and unusual punishment."   
  
Another snicker climbed up her throat, but she bit it back. "Are we sure that Dr. Chilton didn't disappear and reestablish himself elsewhere? That sounds familiar."  
  
The silence that followed forewarned that Crawford did not appreciate that comment. With as much as they shared an opinion of the missing administrator, the manifest dislike for Frederick Chilton shriveled in comparison to the wealth of negativity directed at Dr. Lecter himself. However, Starling felt justified in her comment and did not apologize. It was one of the areas of greater disagreement between them. While she understood Crawford's opinion of Hannibal Lecter, she could not share it. Their separate dealings with him left very different impressions.   
  
When the silence threatened to become uncomfortable, he cleared his throat and continued in a slightly smaller voice, "No one says you have to accept it, you know."  
  
"But I will. You knew that before you called me."  
  
"Yes. You're a team player, Starling. No one can ever call you selfish."  
  
At that, she rolled her eyes. The clock read 5:10 and she felt it was time for her ritualistic morning jog. "They call me worse," she muttered. "When is McCallister scheduled to be transferred?"  
  
"In three days. That enough time?"  
  
"I'll manage."  
  
"Thanks Starling. We won't forget this."  
  
Crawford was never one for 'goodbyes' by habit and the line fell dead. Starling clenched the phone tightly and her teeth gritted. "Yes you will," she murmured dangerously. "Maybe _you _won't specifically, but everyone else will. They always do."  
  
The morning habitual progressed normally. She set her coffee maker and stepped outside for the customary jog around the block. There was some sign of early traffic, but not much.   
  
It wasn't until she heard the wind howling through the few residential trees that she recalled the original conditions of her awakening. In warning, her stomach fell and small shivers sprouted across her body. Starling was glad she was not superstitious for she suspected she would have beaten herself over the head with interpretations of the coming days. Instead, she continued regularly, trying very hard to ignore the new sense of dread spooling a cold web inside her trembling soul.   
  
  


* * * 


	2. Begininng Stages

Author's Note: Thanks everyone for your interest thus far. To a question…yes, the Doctor will most _definitely _be making an appearance in later chapters. Again, my thanks to my two wonderful betas for looking over this for me. You guys are the best.  
  
Disclaimer: The characters herein with the exception of Clark McCallister are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission for entertainment purposes and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
  
Chapter Two   
  
  
Starling turned the corner onto her street just as the sun began to creep over the horizon. The earth was cold and she was grateful for the lack of ice on the streets. Such was not uncommon for late January in Washington. And though she usually indulged in a second lap, she didn't feel up to it today. The most elementary tasks became intensely difficult when one's mind was overloaded with confusing knots and turns. She had to fight the temptation to switch her sensory on automatic pilot.   
  
Inside, she poured a cup of coffee and left the rest for her roommate, who would soon dominate the kitchen. The mornings were usually composed of a joint effort in breakfast preparations—Ardelia assumed the role of cook and Starling charged the beverage orders. Once or twice, she had attempted to surprise her friend by having everything arranged before Mapp rolled out of bed. Needless to say, she was hence strictly forbidden from making anything beyond peanut butter and jelly or untoasted turkey sandwiches. If it necessitated something more than a microwave, she was to call for Mapp immediately.  
  
Starling knew such precautions were made in good fun and that she was not expected to follow them in any circumstance. However, her life was too fast-paced to worry with domesticity. She was not married and did not intend on ever being so, and even if that plan backfired on her, she would be damned before she let herself fall into the stereotypical wife expectation. Life required her only as she was.   
  
With Mapp such things were easy. She had grown up with cooking as other children grew up on cartoons. The differences in their background were manifest and it helped their relationship blossom. Starling had always admired Ardelia's free spirit even if she had no desire to share it. While her friend enjoyed nights on the town with whichever love interest she was currently stringing along, Starling much preferred a quiet evening reviewing facts and files or curling up with a good book.   
  
After opening the blinds, Starling took her coffee and leaned wearily against the counter, not tasting it. Her perfidious mind unwillingly averted to the conversation held with Crawford not an hour before. The thought of seeing Clark McCallister again was not a happy one. In many ways she suspected he strived to adopt Dr. Lecter's mannerisms and regard, but it was not a flavor that suited him. He was very much his own person—over-analytical and always trying to sound cleverer than he was. Though he was undoubtedly one of the singularly more frightening individuals she had dealt with, he likewise tried too hard to earn that right. McCallister liked using words that were long sounding but made no sense in context, and he often went silent for extended periods of time so he could surprise someone with a random burst of loud dialogue.   
  
It was made clear at his trial that he wanted the most noteworthy sentence. Against the wishes of his attorneys, he had taken the stand and gone into long, thorough accounts as to his killings and how much he enjoyed them. The prosecutor was a strong-stomached woman called Caryn Whitelaw that Starling knew on a first-name basis. While she only attended court on the day of the sentence, she had kept a close eye on it through CNN and admired the way Mrs. Whitelaw was able to establish and maintain eye contact, even as McCallister rambled on in gruesome detail. He would become notably frustrated when he could not intimidate her. McCallister wanted to be feared; he felt it was essential for whatever dying image he gave the public.  
  
Starling didn't know what to call him. Like insightful others, she avoided the classification of _monster _as it gave him what he craved. Her relationship with Dr. Lecter had been founded on mutual though admittedly odd respect. Such had no place near McCallister's name. Dr. Lecter had never striven for her high esteem. Simply being one of the more remarkable men she knew was enough for that. On a level of originality, while impossible trace, McCallister was years behind in the game. Criminals had been pulling the stunts he exercised since the dawn of time. It wasn't a matter of fear, either. Starling was quick and handy with a gun and could outwrestle many of her male colleagues.   
  
McCallister was disturbing but she hid that expertly. When their eyes had locked briefly, she refused to become disconcerted. There was only one man who could catch her completely unflustered, and even then, she concealed better than she knew.   
  
Starling was not concerned with the thought that she could not take him should the situation arise. Being within his eyesight for extended periods of time was the most unsettling part of the upcoming days. She could only hope he didn't turn out to be a more dignified version of Miggs on a closer basis.  
  
Again, Dr. Lecter's name floated upward as potentially the only adversary she would face in a fair match with a hint of uncertainty as to the outcome. He was annoying like that. No matter how many years passed with his silence, he was always around. Hovering over her shoulder, making discerning commentary and berating her for various although numbered lapses.   
  
The trip to Colorado was nothing if not an aggravation. It was taking her away from her work, would likely fuel the press with bothersome dime a dozen headlines, and forced her to company a killer whose presence was comparable to Paul Krendler's, were Krendler slightly more reserved. Who could say? The man wore many masks and changed them with the intention of preserving his namesake. She was not about to put anything past him. That would trigger the first of many mistakes.  
  
Like Memphis.   
  
Lost in her thoughts, Starling didn't realize Mapp had entered the room until the untouched cup of coffee was jerked from her grasp, discarded down the sink, and refilled without a breath of 'good morning.'   
  
"You know it's getting cold when it's not steaming anymore," her friend said as she poured herself a cup and leaned against the adjacent counter. Starling looked up wordlessly and nodded, taking an absent sip.   
  
Mapp's brow furrowed with concern. "Hey…you all right, girl?"  
  
For a minute, she simply shook her head, indulging in another long drink. The pivotal state of her thought process was a difficult one to withdraw from, especially when she was already losing sleep. "Got a call from Crawford this morning."  
  
An eye roll followed by a long groan. "Oh, that explains it. What time?"  
  
"Around five."  
  
Mapp snorted, moving away from the counter as she began to rummage for a skillet. "You wanna give me a hand here?" She gestured to the collection of kitchenware before thinking to answer. "How considerate. What a guy. Makes you cry. Any specific reason?"  
  
Obligingly, Starling took one more sip of coffee before dumping the rest and moving forward. When she was hunched by the cabinet in search of diverse cooking utensils, she exhaled a long breath and said, "I'm supposed to escort Clark McCallister to the penitentiary in Florence, Colorado."   
  
Something hard clamored to the floor. Starling would have jumped had she not seen the saucepan slide from Mapp's grasp. However, her friend's attention was successfully averted, her eyes staring fixatedly at her in mixed shock and anger. It was always easy to time these eruptions—a series of physical warnings were triggered before the inevitable shout. At first, Mapp's brows arched, fire racing behind her gaze as her lip quivered in the indignation that Crawford had had the balls to even utter his name to her, much less assign her with such a task. She was a classic over-reactor who was almost happier when she had something to bitch about. Particulars were rarely of any importance.  
  
"What the fuck!" she shouted at last, ignoring the pan as it rattled to stillness against the kitchen tiles. "When is it going to stop?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"That pompous-'I-am-better-than-thou-art'-ass using you as his little crony. Throwing you against all the serial killers he likes, apologizing when it scars you for life, but doing it again and—"  
  
Starling chuckled humorlessly as she knelt to collect the container off the floor. "You're exaggerating again. McCallister hardly 'scarred me for life.' I've seen him…what, twice? Not an affair to remember. He's a jerk from what I've seen. Narcissistic and damn scary when he tries to be…but that's just it. He _tries _to be. He wants the image." She shrugged, shaking her head as her eyes focused on a spot on the ground. "It's nothing I can't handle. I've dealt with worse."  
  
"'Course," Mapp agreed instantly, anger not dissipating. "Crawford threw you at Lecter, too, and he was worse than McCallister. He's scary without trying to be, and, according to you, gives you one hell of a mind fuck."  
  
"Comparing Lecter and McCallister is like comparing the Beatles to the Ozark Mountain Daredevils." Starling smiled inwardly at the thought. It was dangerous placing her favorite band and the doctor on the same pedestal, but both held her high regard, regardless of the manner in which obtained. Her thoughts were often treacherous like that, but she had long ago forfeited the pain of explaining herself. People either knew Dr. Lecter for his monstrosities or his charm—she was the first to know him for both, even on their short acquaintance. "And sometimes a mind fuck can be nice. Liberating, if not anything else. At least he made me_ think, _and he told me the _truth." _At that, the smile fell off her face as she gazed off in thought. "Though truth can be more frightening than all that carnage."  
  
"Still don't make Crawford a hero," Mapp snickered bitterly. "Why is he making you do it, for Heaven's sake?"  
  
"McCallister asked that I administer. Crawford and I both think he's just out for publicity." Starling waited a minute for realization to seep through her friend's eyes. "Sicko's looking for some headlines, and probably to scratch up my reputation again by attacking old wounds. Imagine what the _Tattler _will say? 'MAD McCALLISTER REQUESTS FBI SPECIAL AGENT CLARICE STARLING TO HEAD TRANSFER TO DEATH CAMP.' Then with some subheading that mentions how I was questioned in Lecter's escape and the support I allegedly gave him."  
  
"You should send that in. It's a good one. Besides, they're still trying to find a nickname. You could save 'em some time."  
  
Starling rolled her eyes, placing the pan on the counter after realizing she held it still and moved to drain the last of the coffee. "I'd rather star in a _Soylent Green _sequel."  
  
"How fitting."  
  
The subject was growing tiresome. Mapp did not react to the sideways look she earned for her comment, instead distracting herself with eggs and locating bacon. They would never see eye-to-eye on these issues. Where Starling trusted and admired Crawford, her friend could never seem to ridicule him or his judgment to aptly satisfy her heart's content. They typically avoided bringing it up.  
  
Silence, however, was odd when they occupied a room. After a minute, Starling cleared her throat and steered clear of the issue. "So, what are you doing tonight?"   
  
"Going out with William. Oh! That reminds me…Ira is still asleep in the other room. We'll have to make enough for him." The expression that overwhelmed Mapp's features was one of conceit, familiar in a way that made those closest to her laugh. She loved playing games.  
  
The question was redundant but expected. Starling's brows arched as she shot her friend an incredulous look. "You slept with Ira and are still going to see Willy tonight? Unbelievable."  
  
Mapp cackled. "Well, what can I say? I'm in the market and _It's raining men!" _Her hands shot upward in a mock of praise. _"Halleluiah!" _When her randomness earned an especially dry glance, her arms fell to the sides as she shrugged. "Oh well. What they don't know won't hurt 'em, anyway."  
  
Starling shook her head. "I've traveled that road before and I can tell you right now that it's not so." Her mind was detached but never too far away. While she did not like to dwell, she convinced herself that this continuous flow of recollections was normal given the task ahead. It didn't matter that more and more her mind was occupied with the wrong serial killer.  
  
However, her friend, who had never known such failure, simply shrugged again. "Que sera, then. You win some, you lose some."  
  
The temptation to rebuttal was great but Starling managed to restrain herself. There was no point in beginning an endless debate on the basis of deceptive catch phrases. "Will he want coffee?" she asked instead. "I'll brew another pot."  
  
"Yeah, but decaf. He can't stand caffeine."  
  
She poked her tongue out. "God, you sure do pick up the freaks."  
  
Mapp snickered and commented without thought. "At least he's not a cannibal." She stopped herself when she realized what had so carelessly escaped her lips and glanced upward apologetically. "Sorry girlfriend. All this tabloid talk has gotten to my head."  
  
If the past few years had taught her anything, it was to take life with a sense of humor. The headlines she had consequentially earned after her interaction with the doctor were good for a laugh. She knew the purpose was to get under her skin and trash her image to the public, but Starling also understood that those ignorant enough to believe it were similarly those that did not merit her interest in defense of reputation. And though the accusation this time came from Mapp's mouth, she was astonished to discover that there was no burning resentment that rebounded in aftershock.   
  
The ridiculous never bothered her until it merged with the truth.  
  
"Don't worry about it," she replied nonchalantly as she filled the coffee maker with water.   
  
"No, I shouldn't have said it. You put up with too much shit to worry with it coming into your home."  
  
"Ardelia, I'm not angry. I will _get _angry if you don't drop it."   
  
Breakfast commenced then with the exchange of few words. Their habitual of filling as much dialogue with profanity while cooking failed to surface. Starling did her part, her mind attempting unsuccessfully to refrain from drifting to her imminent task. Such was impossible when she knew what she was facing in upcoming days.  
  
Of course, it was essential to look at the bright side of life. She was getting out of Washington and Crawford had promised vacation time. Since graduating, she had yet to enjoy an honest-to-god holiday. Mapp had taken her on a couple of weekend getaways, but Starling always ended up needing to come back for some work-related pain in the ass. Not this time. Once McCallister was safely incarcerated in Florence, she would discard her cell phone and pager, find some remote place that no one would think to find her and soak it up.  
  
She left the duplex before Mapp thought to wake up her boyfriend after making a sausage biscuit for the go. It seemed essential that she get to Quantico as soon as possible and get everything settled.  
  
When she did see Crawford, he was very deactivating and compliant, as though borderline to the realization that the ice he stood on was very thin. This struck her as singularly ironic as he had told her long ago that it didn't matter how she felt about him as long as they got the job done. Back in the day when she so resented being sent to a dungeon to negotiate with an impossible evil genius. Since then—since graduation—they had become close, even friends in the most uniform of conditions. Crawford was careful in his alliances. Personal ties were not advised within the Bureau—it offered the possibility of interfering with work.   
  
However, after the Buffalo Bill ordeal, after she had been hunted through a basement in Belvedere, Ohio as a result of following instructions, their relationship had kindled. Mapp informed her that many of the other agents mocked the bond shared, but Starling was no stranger to mimicry. She had endured it all her life, and long ago arrived at the conclusion that there was not a path available in which someone would not attempt to make you fall on your feet halfway down the runway.   
  
Starling often wondered if Crawford's altered disposition was at the expense of the realization that she was not as utterly selfless as some of the other agents he had come to know over the years. The profession was one she wanted for honest reasons. There were those who entered looking for fame or the thrill of it or to feel powerful for once in their lives. She was here because she felt it was right. Because any other option was wrong and not her. As soon as she had received her diploma, she knew that she had obtained the embodiment of her accomplishments. That one golden day, she stood on the pedestal over surpassed objectives.  
  
And thence, it all went downhill.  
  
Crawford, of course, knew of her dissatisfaction. His inability to square her position in Behavioral Science was one he considered a personal failure, happily blind to the barriers obstructing her path.   
  
When he saw that morning, his smile was trying and sympathetic. "Thanks for getting here so quickly," he said as he ushered her into his office, directing her to the seat she might as well have had permanently reserved in her namesake. "You know how much I hate doing this. Clint and I discussed it at length last night, when the offer was made. We know that he will likely raise hell either way, but there is that streak in him that likes to be considered unpredictable."   
  
"Don't worry about me, Mr. Crawford," Starling replied. "I've handled worse than him."  
  
"You haven't had to deal with him for this long." Crawford sighed and flopped to his seat. "Here's the game plan. There are several prisoners being transferred to the penitentiary in Florence. No-name cases that'll be released ultimately. People that've done bad enough to be worthy of the human experimentation, you can say. We're going to try to keep it as quiet as possible that McCallister is even with them, and of course that you are in any way implicated."  
  
Starling snickered dubiously. "It won't happen. I have enough enemies that they'd sell to the first bidder to get this information out. I appreciate it, though. I really do."  
  
Crawford offered a thin smile and declined comment. As much as Mapp would object, he was too wise for that. "The plane leaves here at 4:30 AM on Thursday morning. At 5:45 you will change planes in Springfield, Missouri and continue to the airport in Colorado Springs. I don't estimate it'll take you longer than an hour or so. Then there's the ride to Florence. No more the forty miles, but this time of the year, the roads are going to be very hectic. I have no idea how long it'll take." He paused and looked up to her for reaction. When she offered none, he inclined his head and continued. "After all the paperwork is out of the way, you're free to do as you wish. We won't expect you back 'til two weeks past Thursday. I managed to talk Clint into upping it a week. You've had it coming for a long time, Starling, and complying to this nicely has, putting it lightly, earned you several brownie points."  
  
It was tempting to blink at the generosity, but she would not insult him like that. Starling was unaccustomed to kindness, thus such displays often made her uncomfortable. "Thank you. Knowing that is what'll get me through this trip."  
  
"You gonna stay in Colorado?"  
  
"I doubt it. Given the nature of my visit and the time of the year, if I stay too long I'll start to feel like I'm trapped in a Stephen King novel."  
  
His smile broadened a little. "If life were only _that _simple, eh?" They shared a chuckle. How true.   
  
The moment extended into silence and the awkward understanding that there was nothing further to say. At last Crawford cleared his throat and moved for the door. "Well, Starling, I suspect you have some affairs to settle before Thursday. I wouldn't want to keep you."  
  
She nodded, her eyes off in a daze of deliberation. Then the idea sprang to mind and would not leave. A terrible one, as most spontaneous notions usually are. Such foreknowledge spread alongside her features in raw tiresome of being remembered at all. It was a mixture of the timing and instant understanding; otherwise something she would not have considered before. "I'm going to see him before Thursday. I have some questions."  
  
"McCallister?" Surprise was evident in his tone.  
  
"Yes. I think it's necessary."  
  
A look of absolute suspicion overtook Crawford's expression, an intangible that cut as deeply as any conventional weapon. It was in his nature to always be on guard, she knew, and the reaction was more derived from habit rather than the person standing in front of him. After so much time, this sort of impulsive behavior was expected.  
  
That did not prevent it from stinging. However, she was not one to be hampered from one look of betrayed emotion. She knew that it was not his intention for her to have seen it.  
  
"I believe I have that right, if you and Mr. Pearsall concocted this entire thing without even checking in with me first."   
  
Her logicality didn't register. Unmoved, Crawford shook his head and winced. "Why do you want to see him?"  
  
"Because before I get on a plane with him, I want to know why _he _wants to get on a plane with _me. _I know we agreed that it's publicity. It likely is. I'm almost dead sure of it." Starling shook her head. "But we don't know for _sure. _And sir, with all due respect, this is my boat now. It is important that I talk to him before we leave."  
  
"But—"  
  
"It's easy to make speculation standing right here. When I'm sitting in front of him, I'll know for sure." Starling sighed, moving for the door. "I'll let you know. Have a nice day, Mr. Crawford."  
  
And before he could offer one more strain of verbal protest, she was gone, leaving nothing behind but the clicks of her heels. Each step rang with the taste of unyielding conviction.  
  
  
  


* * * 


	3. Visitations

Author's Note: Well, it's been a while. For posterity sake, here's a quick summary of the events thus far: Clarice, haunted by her past, has been specified by a felon to escort a prison transfer to Florence, Colorado. At the end of chapter two, she decided to visit said prisoner before the trip.   
  
All that besides, my continued thanks to my betas.  
  
Disclaimer: The characters herein with the exception of Clark McCallister are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission for entertainment purposes and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
  
Chapter Three   
  
  
She had been to the Washington Penitentiary several times, and since the initial visit, whatever affects the ambiance was said to obscure was void at her perfect sense of immunity. Though her stomach had successfully twisted into a display of imposing knots, it was not a feeling of trepidation that overtook her system. Rather, she related the commotion in her bowels to the premonition she always received before meeting with someone who talked to her breasts while trying to impress her with mediocre come-ons and things she had heard a million times before. Starling knew McCallister was beyond that on a level, though how much was debatable.  
  
The visits to the penitentiary in the past consisted of run of the mill business deals, such as the interrogation of a felon for information on plausible accomplices and so forth. When it came to making prisoners sweat, Starling and Crawford were a dream team. They operated like clockwork: the typical good cop/bad cop routine.   
  
Of course, the chances to work together were numbered and consequentially seized at all times, with or without foreknowledge of the issue in question.  
  
Standing outside, Starling had to huff out a breath and remind herself that she was here by choice and not obligation. Associating with felons was something she avoided on instinct, having already had more than her fill. Had anyone told her two days ago that she would be visiting Clark McCallister of her own freewill, she would have laughed in their face. However, Memphis had taught her to be careful, and unlike those around her, she continued to conform and abide from the lessons learned in that mistake. Starling simply could not board a plane with a killer who requested her specifically to accompany his transfer under the conjecture that it was only a grab for attention. Crawford himself had once pulled her aside to point out the hidden message in ASSUME. It was one of his favored exercises. While she knew she was in too deep to back out, negotiations were always on the table.  
  
Everyone had ASSUMED that Hannibal Lecter could not escape custody, especially with the additional precautions taken. The Guru had underestimated the doctor's intelligence, likely by intention. He hated crediting his enemies, and that personal grudge led to one of the most disastrous transfers of all time.  
  
She had to wonder how Crawford would have reacted if Dr. Lecter had proposed this arrangement, and knew instantly that he would never give the man the satisfaction. Starling had been told time and time again as a trainee to avoid making work personal. To Crawford, that was as personal as it got.  
  
Likely, McCallister only had the media in mind. It was a clever strategy. Were she in the business, Starling knew she would jump at the chance to publicize such an exchange. But it wasn't over until it was over, and she would be damned if she boarded that plane unprepared. If the transfer _did _fail, if in the unlikely chance McCallister _did _escape, she could kiss her occupation good-bye. The enemies she had accumulated over the years were regretfully very influential in the business. With a disaster such as that burdening her shoulders, she had an uneasy feeling that it would not be long before she was asked to hand over her badge and gun, get lost and have a nice life.  
  
Were that ever to happen, Starling knew she would rest better at night knowing she had taken every precaution to secure her position. Everything else was out of her hands.  
  
All more besides, there was the irrefutable double-edged sword of curiosity. Should McCallister's interest in her exceed the desire for headlines, she felt entitled to know before allowing that much space to close between them. She did not like flattering herself and did not once seriously consider—should such a dangerous appeal exist—that it was wholly founded. However, the past, if anything, had proven that she attracted a wide variety of sleazes, regardless of the imposition of bars and isolation. Starling recalled Miggs with her familiar tremble of disgust. For not the first time, she wondered if he would haunt her forever.  
  
And, as in all cases, there was that one exception. One that disturbed her beyond the lines of regularity, the one she carried with her still. The one that failed to apply to all inward standards. In addition, there was the terrifying remedy to such issues. Starling wondered fleetingly, and would later deny thinking it at all, what was so crazy about a man who _did _the things others contemplated doing on a daily basis.  
  
_How did you feel when you heard about my late neighbor, Miggs? You haven't asked me about it. _  
  
She smothered a shiver as she flashed her badge at the first guard she saw and was admitted entrance. It was out of habit. The man's name was Pollard and he knew her well from previous visits. Normally, they smiled and nodded to each other, but she lacked the focus today. Not good, considering the nature of the upcoming meeting.  
  
Her thoughts were away, haunted by his jesting leer that demanded her disposition, even years later. Somewhere, she suspected Dr. Lecter would never be satisfied until he was attuned to every whim that charged his associates. She had promised to tell him of the lambs and her rage, a vow that had gone untended since his escape. Did it make a difference if there was nothing to tell?   
  
A rasp demanded still if she was _glad _that neighborly Miggs had bit the big one. That query was countered upon voicing—a lie, of course, but a response nonetheless.   
  
_If I answer that honestly, _she thought dryly, continuing with procedure, a route she could have walked in her sleep. A few guards nodded to her as she passed, and if her train of thought hitched, she would nod in return without enthusiasm. _Does that make me any better than you? _  
  
A suggestion of grief was her reply. The eerie shadows of long ago returning to disturb her when she needed to focus. Still, it was there, prying to know how she felt about those who performed discourtesies against her, and the actions taken in repercussion for those discrepancies. Was she _glad _or _sad? _  
  
That was a laugh. Starling's mouth tugged into a taut albeit cynical grin. A deputy she knew named Howard escorted her into the designated federal conference room where she would wait for Clark McCallister. There was a long steel table to separate them, complete with chairs bolted to the floor. Two guards were stationed outside, a security camera winked at her from the corner. She felt the presence of another examining her backside.   
  
Waiting. This is always the longest part of the process. Starling liked to consider herself a fairly patient individual—a notion she felt would quirk a few eyebrows. However, she was an expert at keeping herself composed, especially under such trying conditions. She knew that if McCallister entered the room and caught her flustered she would fall off whatever pedestal he had set her atop and never again gain that right. It was essential for the success of the transfer that she maintain her status until they arrived in Colorado.  
  
Focus was so hard to keep when one's mind constantly retracted to conversations held a thousand years ago. A voice needling at the back of her head in constant reminder that no matter what she did and whom she talked to, the first would always be there. She would never rid herself of him.  
  
_Are you asking me, Officer Starling, if I _suborned _Mr. Miggs' felony suicide? Don't be silly. It has a certain pleasant symmetry, though, his swallowing that offensive tongue, don't you agree? _  
  
She answered now as she had then, an answer provoked for her sake and not his. The importance of preserving herself as the person she was. Distantly, the door opened and she saw two guards escort Clark McCallister inward. He looked immediately to her and she looked back, her mind still otherwise occupied.  
  
_Officer Starling, that was a lie. The first one you've told me. A triste occasion, Truman would say. _  
  
It was fortunate that she was separately engaged. When she commanded her overbearing sensory to shut down, she found herself locked in a warring gaze with her interviewee. Unlike before, she failed to shudder at the sight of him. He no longer appeared menacing; rather unremarkable from every convict she had met in the duration of her career. Perhaps the wear and tear of prison had drained him of his previously tangible frightening aura. But then, she reflected, she could not haste to put anything past him. The possibility existed that in effort of sublime imitation he could control the times when he appeared to be a threat.  
  
She didn't think, however, that he was that talented.  
  
There was something else especially notable. Not only was he unsurprised to see her, he was happy.   
  
McCallister was a middle-aged man with graying brown hair. Though his prison photo had him sporting a pair of glasses, he had since given up any ocular supplementary products. A doctor had proclaimed them unnecessary before his sentence. His hair was thick and draped into his line of vision. When he stood at full height he towered at six foot seven, and it was clear that he enjoyed looking down at everyone. As he seated himself, he delivered another condescending gaze, daring her with fire, as though her presence was the invitation to a lengthy brawl.   
  
Starling refused to give him the satisfaction. The look she returned offered no hint of intimidation. It carried neither respect nor fear; rather an expression of general distaste and the supreme desire to be elsewhere, even if it was simply visiting another prisoner.  
  
At last he smiled, unsettlingly sincere, as though she were a friend or relative he had been waiting to see. "Well…" McCallister said slowly. His voice was unexceptional—casual and tryingly pleasant. "Special Agent Starling, I presume?"  
  
There would be no exchange of agreeable chitchat. While she saw that he understood that, she similarly noted that he was not one to accept things without first testing its resolve. Instead, Starling nodded, her own tone not enlightening in sharp abruptness, her eyes set into a cold business façade. "You know who I am, Mr. McCallister."  
  
"So I do. To what do I owe the pleasure?"  
  
"I am here in relation to the upcoming transfer to Colorado."  
  
His smile broadened, as though the topic was a pleasing one. It was quite clear that he had been informed of the prison conditions and suffered no quandary in facing the days until execution locked in solitary confinement. "Yes. I was told you agreed to direct that."  
  
Starling felt a growl scratch at her throat and managed to bite it back. "As I was informed that _you _requested me to command the position."  
  
"And you offered no objection." There was no want of denial behind his voice.  
  
"May I ask why you requested me? You can imagine my curiosity. I hadn't realized that we were that close."  
  
At that, he leaned backward, smiling tightly to himself as though he had uncovered something significant. It stank of arrogance and conceit, cheap victory for an even cheaper price. As though her presence here and the continuance of her actions were completely in the eye of the beholder, and that he held all the answers.  
  
_You're tough, aren't you, Officer Starling?…And you'd hate to think you were common. Wouldn't that sting? My! Well you're far from common, Officer Starling. All you have is the fear of it. _  
  
He spoke, drawing her back with minimal effort. Though the past had its way of resurfacing at the most inopportune times, she was never far from focus. She doubted his voice was as chilling as he'd like. "I scared you, didn't I?" he asked casually.  
  
Starling rolled her eyes and exerted a deep breath, berating herself for her lapse and rejoicing inwardly when she saw he had not noticed. Indeed, McCallister was not as quick as he wanted the press to believe. Reassurance of her prior convictions was returning at amazing speed. "Call it what you want; I'm sticking to curiosity. I simply wonder why you felt compelled to specifically ask an agent you barely know from Adam to administrate your transfer."  
  
"And I wonder how, after everything I've read, my making such a request has had this affect on you, if you're in fact not scared."   
  
She scoffed. "You don't scare me, Mr. McCallister."  
  
"Don't I? Not even a little."  
  
"I know you're trying, but it won't work."  
  
"Oh." He feigned disappointment, leaning back as far as the chair permitted him, resting his head on folded hands. "You seem to have everything worked out then, Agent Starling. That or you have an extremely hard head about these matters."  
  
Her brows arched. "An eye for detail, you might say."  
  
In an almost cordial way, he nodded. "What sort of details are you picking up, then? What provoked you to come visit me?"  
  
Starling's head immediately filled with a thousand psychological diagnoses; the opinions of esteemed professionals and definitions she had long ago committed to memory. However, the onslaught subdued with controlled calm. Long ago, she had been instructed to avoid the books, and while she knew the man sitting across from her matched every characterization sketched by various specialists, it was wise to heed good advice. Intuition and an edge to her quick mouth persuaded her in the other direction. "I believe my purpose here is a rebound of your fight for attention. Your actions thus far have suggested nothing other than desperation to satisfy an under-compensated ego."  
  
"You're giving me that attention," he noted with a grin. "I'm sorry, Agent Starling, but I don't buy it. Why else would you be here sizing me up? Although, I suppose, you do like to associate with serial killers."  
  
It was a low blow to the nature of a Krendler-comment and she brushed it off with ease. Previously manifest discomfort was now nonexistent. Though only a few minutes had passed, she was once more convinced the nature of his inquiry was the desire to ruse headlines. "Call it a hobby," she snickered, rising to the challenge. "You know what _I _think, Mr. McCallister? _I _think you are afraid that inactivity will make you yesterday's news." When his brows arched in an ode to innocence, she gestured demonstratively and edged forward in her seat. "All right. Why did you kill your inmate, Geoffrey Connell?"  
  
"He was annoying me. He had dropped his food on my shoes."  
  
"Your _prison _shoes?"  
  
"There's nothing wrong with keeping tidy, despite your surroundings."  
  
Starling sighed testily. "In killing Connell, you soiled your prison garments with blood. Not to mention, the record of your apprehension states that the place of residence you had occupied for the past two years was not at all orderly. You had made habit of collecting certain keepsakes from each of your victims, and furthermore, did nothing to conceal the whereabouts. Your overconfidence of your success was one of the aspects that got you captured. Care to try again?"  
  
He blinked, voice not wavering in sincerity. "Prison can change a man." When she looked at him cynically, he shrugged and finally broke eye contact. "A minister visited me last week. Some Church of Christ nut-job. Did you hear of that? Preaching that the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand. It's amazing, Agent Starling, what you actually stop to listen to when you have all the time in the world. Daresay, even with his nonstop jabbering, I might have seen the light."  
  
"This was before or after you killed Geoffrey Connell?"  
  
"Before." McCallister smiled and looked back to her sharply. "The man really was a nuisance. You would have killed him, too."  
  
A flash in his eyes and she suddenly saw Miggs again, laughing as she wiped her face clean. Distantly, a voice beckoned her back, defying all laws of reasoning. And she obeyed, even as her assailant could have used the distraction to work himself up again.   
  
Discourtesy was unspeakably ugly, he had said. She remembered thinking that murders must have purged him of lesser rudeness.   
  
A different voice drew her to the present: an unwelcome tenor that stank of victory. Her lapse was not so inexcusable this time. McCallister clearly read her distancing, and knew that her mind was otherwise occupied. This seemed to please him. "You're thinking of _him, _aren't you?"  
  
Starling's eyes widened as the last of her reminiscence faded into nothingness. "Excuse me?"  
  
_"Him. _The _him. _Don't feel too bad. It's understandable. I suppose he would be difficult to forget." McCallister's eyes danced and his lips had distorted into a smile of pure nastiness.   
  
Shaking her head in airy dismissal, she leaned forward again, gaze fixed with wrought determination. "You killed Geoffrey Connell so that your name would make headlines again. You requested that I administer your transfer for the same reason. Perhaps you think, on a level, that because the last transfer I was involved in resulted in disaster that this one will as well. I assure you, that is the furthest thing from the truth."  
  
"You are very confident of yourself, aren't you, Agent Starling?"  
  
"You've given me no reason not to be."  
  
He grinned. "You've had this worked out since you came here, haven't you? Since you first learned that I had asked you to accompany me, right? You had it all worked out to ease your tension. But you couldn't let it rest at that. You had to come and prove it to yourself."   
  
The growl that had lodged in her throat escaped in the form of a sigh. "Your request was unexpected, and you know it. You _made _it to stir up controversy. I don't shy from controversy, and I have no intention of rebuking my acceptance. I merely want to know why. I think I am entitled to that."  
  
There was a brief silence as he scrutinized her, eyes narrowing in thought. After a lengthy, perhaps drawn out consideration, he also leaned forward, smirk tugging at his mouth. "You've played these games before," he accused lowly, though there was no such indictment hidden in his gaze. It was the first hint of significance to escape his lips. "You're very good at it."  
  
"Thank you." Any inkling of sincerity was absent from her tone. It was tempting to add that she had learned from the best, but she held her tongue. Instead, her eyes flickered and she leaned back. "Answer the question, Mr. McCallister."  
  
"How do you figure that I will tell you?"  
  
"I don't. That is why I am asking."  
  
Then it was gone, whatever it was. She watched the serious inclination in his posture vaporize, fighting the temptation to let her frustration show. When he smiled at her again, it was coated thickly in false amiability. "You think that because you got _him _to talk that you'll have the same luck with me. That would make things _so _much easier for you, wouldn't it? Well, I hate to break it to you, Agent Starling, but you're not exactly the catch of the county. I'm not sure what _he _was made of, but with me it takes more than a pretty face."  
  
Starling's eyes bulged with incredulity. Heaving a sigh, she looked down in effort to manage her anger. That didn't work. Instead, she found herself overwhelmed with his voice once more. Cornered now, Dr. Lecter might as well have been in the room with her, staring at her with familiar intensity even as McCallister delivered a dark gaze of his own.   
  
_The other thing I wonder is…how do you manage your rage? _  
  
"How did it feel, Agent Starling?" he continued a minute later. "I'm sure not many even remember your name. But I remember. I followed news of your interactions with much interest. He helped you find the other, didn't he? That Buffalo Bill fellow. Why do you think so? What kind of _power _do you fancy you had over him? And why do you think you should have it over me, as well?"  
  
At last she looked up, eyes fire. "I don't believe I have anything further to say to you, Mr. McCallister."   
  
He shrugged as though it were of little consequence. "Whatever. On Thursday, then. I'll see you on Thursday." Despite his confidence, she read uncertainty behind his eyes. Such confirmation was especially important as he stood, looking down at her in fear that she would still go against her word as result of this exchange.   
  
Starling stood slowly, holding his gaze with ferocity. It wasn't until a guard had grabbed either arm and Deputy Howard stood in the doorway that she nodded in verification and watched with a slight rush of victory as his tension fell. "On Thursday."  
  
Apprehensions vanished and he smiled again, a grin aiming to chill that failed in affect. Starling kept her gaze level and robust. After a long minute he nodded once more, moving as the guards tugged at his shoulders. "I look forward to it."  
  
She believed him.  
  
  


* * * 

  
  
The night air was colder than usual. She did not know how she knew this—it was simply an understanding lodged deep within her subconscious. Even as she hardly recalled her dreams, the sense of déjà vu was impossible to ignore. A place she visited nightly, the finale to every day. Small shivers sprouted across her skin as she failingly attempted to withhold herself from trembling. Leathery reigns coiled in her grasp and her heels dug into the sides of her reliable steed. Behind her was the barn, familiar screams soaring through the air with aching accountability.   
  
Loyalty split to the core. Her better senses commanded her to return and offer what help she could. However, somewhere she knew, as she always knew, that her surroundings were nothing more than apparitions. Images of the past—souls she could not save. The ambiance had recorded every last detail in perfection. Fleetingly, Starling pondered which was worse: the masquerade of actuality or the real thing.  
  
And always, that voice followed her. Even her dreams offered no sanctuary. If anything, she was more open there. More vulnerable. The subconscious was unable to set up reliable defenses, thus the doctor entered and exited at his leisure. With as familiar as she was with this habitual, even if she did not realize it, his debut never failed to surprise her.   
  
It would please him to know that his appearance made the situation more devastating, serving as the reminder that not only was she a child in this scenario, but also a woman. A woman who could not return and help her ailing victims, even if she could brave the storm of her fear. The moment of her maturity seemed to be drawn at the time when they made their first acquaintance. As a girl in her dream, she knows nothing of Dr. Lecter. Once he arrives, she remembers everything, and finds herself overwhelmed with an inexpressible sense of loss.   
  
However, it was different tonight.  
  
The screaming of the lambs abruptly ceased and the air around her fell dead. Starling protectively drew the reigns close, fearing the horse might dematerialize from beneath her. For long minutes, the atmosphere was coated only with her harsh breaths, hair annoyingly falling in her line of vision as her head whipped from side to side to estimate the situation. There was nothing to see. Where the barn had stood only seconds before now held nothing. A frighteningly literal nothing: blackness that stretched forever. Likewise, the stars above slowly started to wink out of existence. The gravel under Hannah's hooves disappeared, as did the road ahead. Starling, helpless, could do nothing but watch and wait until she was alone. Alone atop the horse, loud breaths emanating from her chest as the only sign of life.   
  
It felt she had reached the end of the world.  
  
Then she was not alone; at least it did not seem so. His voice sliced the heavy silence like a hot knife through butter. Though it was inevitable, she could not help but gasp loudly. The horse reacted as well—not violently but clearly upset about something. God, it felt so real under her. Starling ran her hand over Hannah's coat and felt her eyes well up with tears.   
  
_Will you let me know if ever the lambs stop screaming? _  
  
"They haven't!" she screamed, voice muffled with overwhelming sentiment. "They haven't stopped screaming! And you _know _it!"  
  
At that, the doctor seemed amused, his tenor moving from dialogue of their past, something it had done on occasion but with irregularity. Starling strained her neck in desperation to see him. However, he did not appear, even as his voice drew closer.  
  
_"Ah, but they have stopped, Clarice. They are not screaming now." _  
  
Indeed the lambs had stopped, almost honoring his presence. It left her with an unsettling feeling, somewhere between betrayed and impressed. Once he left she was sure they would start again.  
  
Starling scowled, voice embittered. "Then you know already. What's the point of me telling you now?"  
  
There was a chuckle, closer still. With growing anxiety, she tugged Hannah to perform a full circle. Nothing but blackness surrounded them. That did not sooth her. She would not put it past him to walk out of the shadows when he felt like it. When he thought it would be the most traumatizing.   
  
_"I suppose you have a point," _the voice continued from nowhere in particular. _"Given the odd circumstances, that would be rather redundant. However, there are other unanswered inquiries. Your rage, Clarice. You never shared your secret to managing that growing spark of fury. Does it _writhe _within you? Hmmmm?" _  
  
"Rage against you? Sure. Every day."  
  
_"You are being impertinent. A shame. You usually do so well…" _  
  
Starling turned around again; sure she had felt his breath on her neck. There was nothing. "Why are you here, Doctor? Why now? Why after all this time?"  
  
A scolding beat of reproach. _"You know the answer to that, Clarice." _  
  
"I don't. Why would I ask you if I knew?"  
  
_"This frontage of ignorance does not suit you, my dear. You know the answer, you simply have not realized it yet." _  
  
"Is there a difference?"  
  
_"Oh yes." _It seemed behind her again. Nothing. _"Quite a large one, come to think of it. I suppose for posterity sake, we can keep it simple. One step at a time. Why do _you _think I'm here?" _  
  
The answer was with her as quickly as he uttered the question. Familiar aggravation coincided with the even more annoying understanding. As always, it only required a reverse of the inquiry to lead to a conclusion. When such a matter was pointed at her for direction, the path was always clearer. Paved and lighted. There was no need for confirmation; her inkling was indisputably correct, however disconcerting. "I called you here."   
  
_"Very good. Why?" _  
  
"Because of what I have to do."  
  
_"Yessss…" _His hiss echoed with lasting remembrance. _"Clark McCallister…rather boring character, isn't he?" _  
  
"I've worked with better."  
  
_"I'm flattered." _  
  
"Don't be. I never said it was you."  
  
Another chuckle. His voice was moving away again, and she instinctively tugged on the horse's reigns to follow it. The exercise proved fruitless. Even lost in her subconscious, she could not catch him.   
  
_"Your first instinct was correct, of course," _he said as he drifted. _"He is annoyingly addicted to publicity. And, naturally, this move will grant him what he desires. Try as he might, dear old Jack will not be able to prevent it. This is not to discourage your manifestly misplaced high opinion of him, but it is the truth, Clarice. Buried deep within you is the realization of deceived faith." _  
  
Some were truthfully acknowledgements she had made to herself, but timid still with the threat of vocalization. She didn't want outside influence to point out holes. However, despite the instant activation of her defenses, the words scorned and cut deep enough to draw blood. Even—and perhaps especially—within her cavity, he knew what to attack. Where it hurt the most—where she could not hide. She knew she was dreaming, though, as logicality bore no other explanation; given the horse she currently straddled and the definitive absence of tangible surroundings, it felt no less real. A lengthy silence ensued and she was left alone, her heart hammering. Shivers sprouted across her body, her skin moistening with cold sweat. Starling strained to see past the darkness but could not. It stretched endlessly.  
  
Suddenly, the space beneath her felt chilly and vacant. By the time she realized that Hannah was no longer with her, she had fallen to the ground with a harsh thud. A surprisingly real twinge struck her side and her face contorted in pain. Starling was no stranger to injury, thus recovered quickly as her eyes shot up with the expectation of a sudden advance—for the doctor to appear when she was so indisposed. However, he remained away, giving no indication that he was even in the proximity, or ever had been.  
  
Her legs were wobbly as she stood. Another scan of the area offered no heightened results. At last, she admitted to a rush of fear. Perhaps this wasn't a dream. Perhaps she was lost somewhere dark, devastatingly near Hannibal Lecter. Perhaps he had materialized in result of being thought of so often; the collective notions of her subconscious mapping the construction for the real thing to take place in her presence. She wanted to call out for him but held her tongue and waited. And waited…and waited…  
  
_"You'll want to watch yourself, Clarice." _The voice was suddenly in her ear, right behind her, his breath fanning her cheek. Starling screamed and whirled around to nothing. He chuckled richly, still near but respectively distanced. _"Oh, wouldn't worry about him getting inside your _head. _He isn't as intelligent as he would like to believe, but Jack has covered that already, has he not? No no…he will use you for the attention he craves. Likely, he will also use me. Our _connection. _Yours and mine." _A short pause. _"We always did make quite a pair, didn't we? As for anything further, I do not foresee much trouble. I believe he fancies you a bit too much to try anything malignant." _  
  
She grumbled loudly. "What is it about me and serial killers?"  
  
_"Charismatic charm?" _When she grunted again, he correspondingly tittered once more in growing amusement. _"And on that note, Clarice, it is always a pleasure. I would hope you would find it within yourself to agree one day." _  
  
"Why should I? None of this is real." She turned again in desperation to see him. Blackness stretched forever.  
  
_"Isn't it?" _  
  
Encouraged, she stepped forward and mounted the challenge. "Then again, who knows? Maybe. My grasp on reality isn't exactly what it used to be."  
  
_"Dreams are real within their own rights. They reveal what you suppress." _The voice had neared again. Next to her. Behind her. This time, however, she schooled herself in refusal to seize the bait, as that was clearly what he wanted. Perhaps if she remained stationary he wouldn't move away, or would turn her to face him. Her hand had to flex the temptation to wander backward and explore. When he spoke again, she thought she felt his teeth scrape her earlobe. It was strange to credit something to her imagination in a scenario that was in itself conjured from her disturbed line of thinking, but she never balked from irregularity. If anything, tonight alone proved the opposite. _"And what could you be suppressing, Clarice, that would draw me here now, besides your blatant call for assistance? Surely not only for the sake of Clark McCallister." _  
  
"If not for him, then I don't know," she replied with honesty, digging her nails into her palms, the urge to turn becoming near unbearable. "Maybe, as Ardelia says, I was in the need for a good mind fuck, and you're the best I know."  
  
A rumble of laughter seemed to tickle her back. _"What an interesting proposition." _  
  
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, for Christ's sake."  
  
_"Perhaps you called me here because I haunt your every thought? Because you desperately _crave _guidance, even if you do not need it. Hmmmm? The reassurance that you are on the right track, ignoring the accurate hunter's senses that rage so efficiently through your system." _  
  
It happened too quickly to keep up until the moment had passed. A pair of strong hands grasped either shoulder and spun her around to face a whirlpool of the maroon sea behind his eyes. Her breath hitched in her throat even as her logic cried that this wasn't real, that she would awake at any minute. And though it lasted only a second, it filled her with such satisfaction that furthering the moment would have been wasteful and superfluous.  
  
_"Or perhaps," _he hissed. _"You called me here because no matter how you try, you simply can't forget me." _  
  
Then he was gone, melted into a sea of darkness.   
  
When Starling awoke seconds later, she remembered very little from the dream. It was the first night in many that she neglected to stir alert with a grasp of panic wrenching her insides. This was even more curious, as her pillow was drenched in sweat and her blankets were wrung across the bed.   
  
It was 4:57. Jack Crawford had called at the exact same time the previous before. She found this curious, but only for a minute. Usually she was up by now in credit to a dream, waking with a start as a dying wail faded in the distance. For the moment, she was content with the overwhelming sense of indifference. It was superior to the customary routine.   
  
The only aspect that she found disconcerting was the screaming lambs that usually served as the wake up call had been replaced with a haunting voice of long ago. One she couldn't forget—no matter how desperately she tried.   
  
  
  


* * * 


	4. Departure

Author's Note: My extended thanks to Helene and Nikita.  
  
Also, Star Wars fans will notice a bit of familiarity toward the end - muahaha. I couldn't resist.  
  
Disclaimer: The characters herein with the exception of Clark McCallister are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission for entertainment purposes and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
  
Chapter Four   
  
  
  
Wednesday evening was bittersweet.   
  
Arrival home from Quantico was earlier than usual. Because of the nature of her upcoming trip, Pearsall was cutting her more slack than she reckoned anyone had since graduation. She suspected it was more because of Crawford's influence rather than choice. While no one would confirm anything in one way or another, it was hinted in every note of his tone. Starling had never accused her supervisor of holding the same prejudices she suffered from colleagues, but she was certain they affected his customary behavior toward her, whether or not by intention.  
  
She was home by three in the afternoon and was unsurprised to see Mapp crashed on the sofa. It was then that she was offered the first opportunity to relate her meeting with McCallister to her roommate. The previous evening had not seen her friend home until well past 2:00 AM. She was still sleeping when Starling left the house that morning and had taken Ira to lunch before cutting the rest of the day. There were several days like this; days where they went completely without seeing each other due to conflicting schedules. It was always provided fuel for lengthy conversations when allowed the chance to sit down and catch up.  
  
The initial reaction from her friend was not wholly unexpected. Rather, Starling had to sit back and bite her lip to wan amusement. They spoke over a bottle of Colt 45, sliding it back and forth across the coffee table.  
  
"That fucking creep," Mapp muttered as she refilled her glass. "So what now? You still gonna do it? You can bail, you know. It ain't never too late. Didya tell Crawford what he said? Ten bucks says he won't let him within a stone's throw in hell of you now."  
  
Starling shook her head, leaning back, taking her half-empty drink with her. "It's not that, Ardelia. If anything, our visit encouraged me that nothing will go wrong. He wants publicity…that's why he did what he did. That much is _very _clear. As for asking for me, I believe it was a combination of additional exposure and curiosity."   
  
"Curiosity?"  
  
"He said he had followed my interactions with Dr. Lecter, and made several references to insinuate his wondering why a man of _that _character and reputed elegance would've decided _I _was good enough to talk to." Starling took a hard drink and made an involuntary face. "He doesn't realize that his guess is as good as mine. Sucks to be him."  
  
Mapp's brows quirked in challenge. "Sucks to be _you, _I'd say. From where I'm sitting, he don't lose nothing. Crawford and Pearsall agreeing to this bullshit arrangement gives McCallister exactly what he wants. All for what? A quiet transfer? Who cares anymore? I believe everyone from here to Sacramento has agreed that the man ain't as clever as a certain doctor we all know. What's the worst he can do?"  
  
The thought was with her before she could think to prevent it. Though it remained unvoiced, she had to lend herself pause in consideration. A haunting acknowledgement that rang of sharp truth. _But you _didn't _know him. No one really did. _  
  
Something within her fell, indistinguishable.  
  
_I came really close. _  
  
Starling shook the thought away and shrugged, struggling briefly to recall what they were discussing. "It took forever to find him, Ardelia. I'm sure he could find some way to make the transfer very unpleasant if I don't do this." A short pause. "Besides, I'm getting a two week vacation as a result. All for putting up with McCallister for one day. I can do it."  
  
With a snicker, her friend rolled her eyes and grinned humorlessly, taking another drink. "I can just see you in twenty years. You can write about this, you know. _Inside The Killer's Cell _or some stupid shit like that. One hundred twenty pages and you'd be a fucking millionaire. Just throw in some juicy stuff about Lecter (cause let's face it, ain't no one as interested in a two-bit serial killer as they are a cannibal) and tie 'em together with some hazy sentences to imply the two are linked. Make it kinky. It'll sell."  
  
By the time Mapp finished structuring her theory, Starling was in stitches. The idea was rightly preposterous; the sheer image of herself producing anything relative to the suggested material was beyond lines of absurdity. Perhaps it was more the liquor, but whatever the case, it didn't seem to matter. "Whatever, 'Delia," she said between chuckles. "Sure, that'd sell. I'd have to write it _right now, _and I don't have the time. By the time my retirement rolls around, no one'll even remember Dr. Lecter exists, much less Clark McCallister. Like you said, who really cares about a serial killer unless he's on the loose? We both saw it with Jame Gumb. Everyone cared until Catherine Martin surfaced, then forgot about it. As long as Mad Miccy's no longer a threat to Joe Blow and his family, society don't give a fuck."  
  
"Mad Miccy!" Mapp squealed with a rumble of drunken laughter. "That's the best I've heard yet! You _better _send that in to the _Tattler. _If you don't, I will."  
  
"Go right ahead."  
  
The air around them grew silent for a few awkward minutes. Glasses were drained and refilled, and drained again.   
  
"Starling?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Can I ask you sumfin?"  
  
"Ain't nothing stopping yah." The pattern of her speech always suffered the later these drinking parties ensued.  
  
"Where do yah think he is?"  
  
She swallowed. "Dr. Lecter?"   
  
Mapp looked down, images of her impending drunkenness vanishing at an alarming rate. That was a great area of envy between them. For whatever reason, the Maker had blessed her with the ability to transform from tipsy to the epitome of earnestness before anyone could blink. Starling never knew when Mapp was authentically inebriated. She was, perhaps, the only person who could remain sharp as a tack despite the chemical reactions conflicting in her body. "I don't mean to sound like everyone who's been giving you a headache," she continued softly. "It's been…what? Three, four years?"  
  
Her words nearly fell to deaf ears. Merely the question stirred within her a wave of recollection, and shivers sprouted across her skin in affect. The mention drew her to a flash of a dying image, and she remembered immediately of whom she dreamt the night before. After awakening that morning, she brushed it off as people normally do, and only now found the time to consider his involvement disconcerting.   
  
Any form of illustration flickered and died. Starling was grateful for her inability to recall her dreams, but similarly frustrated. Obviously, whatever the doctor had told her subconscious had calmed her. It was so unsurprising on a level that it made her shudder. Her discussions with Dr. Lecter in the past were brief and had not concerned reassurance. It was pain the doctor loved, any at all pain. In a sense, it was his air. A way to keep himself entertained in isolation. Their discussions were courtly, yes, but he had never offered a sympathetic reaction to any of her raw emotions.   
  
He had also refrained from cutting her down in his infamous manner. Where he had the reputation of making grown men cry simply for biting reviews of poor articles in medical journals, he had only shown her that part of himself once. In the beginning. Before he _really _became interested.   
  
"Four years," she said at last, wincing as she drained the remainder of her glass. "Not quite, but closer to four than three. Oh, I don't know, Ardelia. Lord knows I've wondered…lately more than ever."  
  
"Since this McCallister bullshit started?"  
  
Starling nodded, resting her glass on the coffee table and leaning into the embracing comfort of decorator pillows. "I think he probably lost himself in Europe…or will, if he hasn't already. Crawford kept an eye on Florence following his escape, but when things went quiet, he pulled his supervision."  
  
"Why Florence?"  
  
"The drawings." Her voice trailed off into another sea of recollection. "Lecter was in love with Florence, but I believe he's too smart to have gone there immediately. I think he could've concealed himself well…we know he went to St. Louis first and had no trouble, even with his face flashing every television screen." She huffed out a breath and shook her head heavily again, drawing her hands to rub her eyes agitatedly. "I don't see why Crawford insists that he isn't as smart as he appeared to be. I think he was that and then some. None of _us _saw that coming."  
  
"Ever think he could be here?"  
  
Starling arched a skeptical brow. "Washington?"  
  
"No…the States."  
  
"Never." With a definitive headshake, she succumbed to temptation and lurched for the bottle and refilled her glass. "Make me stop after this one," she instructed Mapp offhandedly, knowing perfectly well she would do no such thing. "No, no…Dr. Lecter has taste. For the most part, the States don't. I think he likes it here in certain places, but he could never live in Baltimore again."   
  
Mapp didn't appear convinced. Lips pursing in thought, she leaned forward and pried the Colt 45 from Starling's grasp, debated refilling her own glass before setting it aside. "You ever think," she asked softly, "that he _could _be here…like, watching you? That someday he might?"  
  
The question flushed her cold. "Why would he? He said he wouldn't."  
  
"Well…there was some merit to what McCallister said, if you think about it." Mapp gauged the harsh look that insinuation received but didn't balk. Such was not expected nor appreciated. With a friendship this long in the making, they were accustomed to prying well beyond the lines of comfort and into territory restricted to anyone else. "Lecter _talked _to you, Starling. There ain't no getting around that. Why is anyone's guess. But he talked to you when he would talk to no one. You honestly think that he doesn't consider coming around to check up on you once in a while?"  
  
With a heavy shake of her head, Starling tore her eyes away and fixed her gaze on an aging liquor stain on the carpet. "Whether he _considers _it or not is his affair. I don't think so. I think he likely has disassociated himself from anything pertaining to the asylum or his former life, regardless of how I _interested _him."  
  
"You think he used you to escape?"  
  
"No." It was an honest answer; one she didn't have to consider before replying. With whatever forged kinship, there was always a sense of authenticity. Even years later she saw that the doctor had at least at one time held her in a higher light. Whether he did now was improbable. There was respect, of course. A part of her wished to believe that would never die on either end of the unlikely bond. "No. I believe he was sincere, but I also know that once he saw an out, he would use whatever interest he had in the case for self-benefit. Lecter was courteous—something I still don't understand—but he was also a very smooth manipulator. Once Chilton let the cat out of the bag about the phony deal, he pretended to go along with it all the while knowing what he would do once he got to Memphis." Starling sighed and shook her head once more. "He knew what was going to happen after I visited him then. He was _counting _on it…my visit, I mean.  
  
"He had that air about him," she continued after a short pause. "While I never guessed he would escape, I knew he was playing around with authorities…throwing out names like Billy Rubin, knowing they would chase to all ends before realizing it was a fake. He timed it all so well." After releasing another sigh, her eyes traveled upward and reflected Mapp's concern. Starling chuckled lightly and shook her head in contrary discernment. "McCallister is different. If he tries anything, it'll be spur of the moment and clumsy. He's never been a part of a transfer and really doesn't know what to expect. Besides, we're hoarding several others with him and there will be two armed guards at either end of the plane."  
  
"And you'll be far away from him?"  
  
She nodded, finishing off her drink and setting the glass aside. "I'll be at the front of the plane along with a couple US Marshals. Every precaution is being taken, girlfriend. You have no reason to worry."  
  
"I ain't gonna stop worrying till you're back here safe 'en sound," Mapp replied, drawing the bottle back within reach, rolling it idly against the coffee table. "Not just about the transfer. I know you're a big girl and have already have had more action than I ever hope to see…but—"  
  
"I need this time off," Starling said definitively. "I'm looking forward to it."  
  
"Know where you're going yet?"  
  
"There's a flight out of Colorado Springs to Houston Friday afternoon." She breathed deeply and leaned back again. "Might as well visit, you know. I won't make the entire trip of it…just drive to Hubbard when I feel I can and visit."  
  
Mapp nodded her understanding. "You haven't visited since you graduated, have you?"  
  
"No. After that, I might go as far down south as San Antonio. I have two weeks. Might as well make the most of it."  
  
"Alamo?"  
  
"Along with all the other obnoxious tourists, I'm thinkin' so."  
  
Smiling thinly, her friend heaved herself off the couch with an exaggerated sigh. "That'll be good for you," Mapp admitted as she moved for the kitchen they shared. "No one can say you haven't earned it."  
  
Starling scoffed her disagreement, pulling herself to her feet. In the past, they had made habit of talking late into the night only to wake at some obscene hour the next day without difficulty. It was more her habit than Mapp's, though her friend could wake just as early if necessary. That seemed a long time ago. Her flight schedule required her up at 2:30 to make it on time. "You'd think that, wouldn't you? Both you and Crawford said the same. I'm sure that Krendler'll pitch a fit, though, and get a bunch of people hacked that I got time off."  
  
The shout was muffled by the imposing presence of the kitchen door, but nonetheless heard without handicap. "Fuck Krendler!"   
  
"Nuh uh, girly. He's all yours." As Mapp broke into subtle chuckles, Starling joined her in the kitchen to wash out her glass. "Listen, I gotta crash."  
  
"Now? It's early."  
  
"So's my flight. I wanna be alert. Scratch that: I _gotta _be alert. No sleeping tomorrow."  
  
"All righty." Mapp turned and pried her glass from her hands, smiling kindly. "I guess that means I'm off to bed, too."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Think I'm gonna let you on that plane without saying goodbye? Hell no, sistah. Ain't gonna see you for two weeks. 'Sides, I'm usually up then, anyway."  
  
"Getting up isn't as easy as staying up, you know."  
  
"Of course I know. Try to make that stop me."  
  
Starling grinned. Sometimes, a lot of the time, Mapp could do things so singularly thoughtful that it made up for past inconsistencies. "You're the best."  
  
"I knows it. Don't _you _forget it. Now get your ass in bed. I'll do the dishes."  
  
  


* * * 

  
  
When the alarm clock sounded at 2:30, Starling was instantly ready to act. Dying wails of a fading dream echoed into the distance; the nightly routine unashamedly interrupted leaving unfinished dead stirrings of dread to spool her insides. Like those preceding it, sleep had lent itself to a variety of tossing and turning through horrific visions of the past in league with event that awaited her upon awakening. She had never slept well when she knew she was facing a particularly rough day.  
  
Much to her surprise, Mapp, true to her word, rolled out of bed thirty minutes later. A pot of coffee was brewing by the time Starling stepped out of the shower, along with the rich smell of old fashioned country cooking. They shared casual chitchat and drained the remaining supply of caffeine in the house. Both instinctively avoided the issue that hung over the room like a pulsing storm cloud waiting for monsoon season.  
  
An hour after waking, the doorbell rang. Starling didn't hear it; she was in the middle of drying her hair and getting the rest of her gear together. When she went downstairs for the final time before departure, she was surprised to see Mapp talking quietly with John Brigham over a box of doughnuts. They both stood when she entered the room.  
  
"I called John after you went to bed," Mapp explained nonchalantly, her tone indicating many different things that only a person who knew her very well would detect. "Thought it might do you good to see a different friendly face before you left."  
  
Starling smiled her gratitude, stepping forward. "I appreciate that, John, but it's not necessary."  
  
"Don't be silly." He smiled nicely at her. "I told Ardelia that I'd be happy to drive you two to the airport. Don't know if I told you, Starling, but everyone's really awestruck that you're actually doing this."  
  
"I've heard what they're saying, John, at least some of them." She heaved out a sigh. "Whispers, really. It's anything but awe."  
  
"Don't pay attention to it."  
  
"I don't. How do you think I survive every day?" With a good-natured smile, Starling offered a shrug. "People will say and think what they feel is appropriate, regardless of little things like facts."  
  
There was a sigh and Brigham nodded, looking down. "You're a good sport," he said softly. "And you put up with a bunch of stuff that no one person should rightly face. I should tell you now, though…someone's leaked to the press. Crawford's pretty wound up about it. I know you won't be here to see any immediate headlines, but I thought you should know. You'll undoubtedly hear of it wherever you end up going."  
  
Beforehand such news would have caused her to flush with cold anger. Now, however, it came with such predictability that all the reaction she could muster was a chortle of anticipation and a roll of the eyes. "Surprise, surprise. Well, I told Crawford that someone would eventually."  
  
It was Mapp who reacted most violently. Her eyes flared and she emitted a highly audible sigh of contempt, arms crossing tellingly athwart her chest. However, she refrained from vocalizing her obvious judgment. An unspoken understanding construed to the knowledge that any additional conversation in one way or another would achieve nothing than to further agitate already raw nerves.  
  
Afterward, everyone was all business. Brigham helped Starling with her things into his car. The air between them was still slightly awkward, but things were gradually returning to a state that felt most like the norm. Before he asked. Though she knew why Mapp had invited him and did not approve, it was nice to see a friend this dark morning.  
  
The drive carried out in silence. No one felt up to speaking.   
  
At the landing, Mapp embraced Starling tightly. Despite the oddity of the situation, her friend was acting principally bizarre; had been since the assignment surfaced. She suspected it was in ode to her growing irritation with Crawford and the way the system continually recycled her in such a manner.   
  
Brigham shook her hand and indulged her in a mini-lecture on firearms for the benefit of her amusement. Starling smiled faintly and conceded a chuckle.   
  
No one watched as the prisoners boarded. She refrained from looking at the plane as long as possible.  
  
Crawford seized her hand as she stepped away as he had the day of graduation. "Thank you," was all he said.  
  
To Brigham, Mapp neared protectively. "I got a funny feeling," she whispered, nodding in Starling's direction. "Like I'm not going to see her again."  
  
However, it was Starling who had the last word. As she disappeared into the darkness of the plane, handing over her badge and various side arms, she turned again to look at everyone who was dear to her. Everyone who was now watching her leave. Everyone she was doing this for.   
  
Mad McCallister's eyes were on her from the very first. She didn't grant him the satisfaction of gazing back. Instead, she exhaled deeply and shook her head. "I have a bad feeling about this," she muttered.  
  
It was the only time such a confession would escape her lips.  
  
  


* * * 


	5. Crash

Author's Note: Thanks again to my betas. I would be lost without you.  
  
Disclaimer: The characters herein with the exception of Clark McCallister are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission for entertainment purposes and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
  
  
Chapter Five  
  
  
  
There were only two previous transfers on her plate, but Starling felt comfortable enough with the procedure to continue without trepidation. Netting separated personnel and prisoners-seats facing each other as to keep the convicts under constant supervision. One of the four US Marshals overseeing the modus operandi offered her a window seat in the gangway directly facing a row of inmates, smiling friendlily while not trying to mask that he was checking her out. She thanked him politely with familiar evasiveness and turned to gaze at Mapp and Brigham who stood respectively near Crawford. Their expressions were easily deciphered-so solemn she might as well have been traveling inside a casket.  
  
A charge swept through the plane, followed by a metallic clank as all prisoners were secured in place. McCallister was opposite her three rows back, occupying the aisle seat. Starling felt his eyes on her immediately but refused to gratify him by looking back. Instead, she pulled her book from her handbag-one she knew she would look at rather than read-and reflected that it was not the wisest choice, given the circumstances. However, being halfway through Misery certified an inability to put it down, and all other selections registered as mundane and ordinary. Her eyes were heavy but she couldn't sleep-her nerves on high alert and she felt something similar to a cooing lamb every time she blinked. It would not do to awake in a panic here.  
  
Starling did not allow herself to relax until the plane was off the ground. From there, it was only a matter of time. Her head remained buried in the literary world through the duration of the flight, looking up only once to request a cup of coffee. McCallister spoke not a word, though his eyes were trained on her the entire way.  
  
The plane landed in Springfield a surprising ten minutes ahead of schedule. Though encouraged, Starling knew better than to suspect her luck would continue on the same street throughout the rest of the stops. While the plane they moved to seemed smaller, she credited her growing tension to restlessness and fatigue. It didn't help that Annie Wilkes had just run over a police officer with a lawnmower.  
  
They had been in the air for a little more than a half hour when the first words cut through the silence.  
  
"I thought of something interesting last night, Agent Starling."  
  
Though she was prepared for McCallister to break into a string of dialogue at any minute, it still made her jump inside. However, her outward façade remained unmoved. Her eyes barely flickered over the book cover. With alarming control, she gave no indication that she had any intention to answer, or that she had even heard the question.  
  
"Wouldn't you like to know what it is?"  
  
Perhaps it was better to indulge him. While her interview had revealed nothing particularly threatening, the man was a confessed and proud serial killer. To her, he was another problem: an annoyance, and yet, a brief ticket out of Washington. Still, Clarice Starling indulged no one-despite specifics.  
  
"Agent Starling?"  
  
"What did you think of, Mr. McCallister?" She dog-leafed her page and placed the book nicely in her lap as her eyes rolled upward with shining agitation.  
  
"The Green River Killer.do you remember that case?"  
  
She nearly scoffed. Every agent in the country was aware of that case. It was well before her time but still referred to as though the man were actively selecting his victims. The unnamed serial killer had been quiet for several years, and it tormented Crawford that there was someone out there who had gotten away with such ambiguous multiple crime. "Yes, I am familiar."  
  
The prime of the case that was still under heavy investigation in Oregon and in several offices at Behavioral Science lasted through the 1970s and took a healthy junk of the '80s. Starling never made the suggestion, but she suspected Crawford had harbored the hope of ending both cases when Lecter was arrested, despite the fact that the murders took place on opposite ends of the country. Anything to add more to the doctor's plate.  
  
"He preyed on girls-namely prostitutes. Ted Bundy even offered his assistance." McCallister's brows arched challengingly and he offered a toothy grin.  
  
Starling smiled tryingly, immediately reading into the implication without appreciation. "I am aware."  
  
"Never caught, still. I suppose Lecter was more helpful in his assistance, with Buffalo Bill, I mean."  
  
It was then that she noticed the attention of every man within the encompassing proximity-authority and prisoner alike-were absorbed in this exchange. Starling was much too intelligent to respond, thus simply reminded McCallister that she had not been an agent at the time and returned to her book.  
  
Ten minutes passed.  
  
"Ms. Starling?"  
  
The lack of formality that had only a minute ago preceded her name made her grumble inwardly, but she did not look up.  
  
"Ms. Starling?"  
  
"Agent Starling," she corrected, eyes remaining glued to a sentence she had started a thousand times in the past half hour. A beat or two of silence ensued before she finally gratified him, not disguising her irritation this time. "What is it, Mr. McCallister?"  
  
"I thought of something you might find amusing. It just occurred to me." He smiled like an accomplished businessman, leaning back as far as he could to suggest he was seated on a throne rather than the prison accommodations of an airplane. "I was born in Florence, and I'll die in Florence. Different states, of course. Florence is one of those funny towns that shows up all the way across the country. Have you noticed that? You'll find one in every state you come across. Funny, isn't it?"  
  
Starling rolled her eyes, flipping her book back into view. "Hysterical," she muttered.  
  
"Aren't you going to ask me which state it was?"  
  
"I wasn't planning on it."  
  
"Come now, Agent Starling," McCallister drawled, earning a few snickers from those around him, as if even they knew when enough was enough. "You're being inhospitable."  
  
Finally, one of the marshals came to her defense, apparently losing interest and finding the continuous stream of discourse as annoying as she did. Leaning forward, he cleared his throat and said with some authority, "All right, all right, enough yapping. Settle back, McCallister."  
  
"My apologies, Officer," he replied nonchalantly. "I was just asking the lady a question."  
  
This seemed to satisfy everyone, and the plane fell into relative silence for a few seconds. Dead air was accompanied only by the hum of the engines beneath them and unsteady breathing of anxious passengers. For the life of him, Clark McCallister seemed to be the only prisoner unmoved by the reputation of his destination. He appeared glad to be going, as though the outing was a much-welcomed breath of fresh air.  
  
The silence allowed for Starling to focus heavily on the novel. It wasn't often that she had the opportunity to completely lose herself in fiction, and while she allowed herself to become more engrossed than usual, she extended still her preempted elevated sensory to be on alert for anything suspicious.  
  
It wasn't until the pilot announced that they were approaching Colorado Springs that McCallister felt the need to answer his untended inquiry.  
  
"Kentucky."  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
The forty-mile ride took more than two and a half hours to complete. For the life of her, Starling would never understand why anyone bothered with transfers-or travel of any sort-to or from Colorado during the winter months. She occupied the front passenger seat where she didn't have to look at him and he could not see her. While she was not an easy victim of carsickness, she refused to dive into Misery again. The star prisoner had not bickered with the travel arrangements, but she wanted to be on full alert, should he try anything in the home stretch.  
  
Much to her surprise, he didn't. McCallister maintained his stream of uncharacteristic good behavior, and arrival at the Florence Penitentiary was blissfully anticlimactic. She signed over the prisoners and ignored him as he was taken away.  
  
"Thank you, Miss Starling!" he said merrily. "See what happens when you cooperate? It truly was a pleasure!"  
  
She did not reply, rather watched as he was ushered away in a procession of prisoners, humming to himself. The first ounce of relief was denied until she could not see him. When it finally hit that he was gone and she was rid of him forever, Starling allowed herself a small grin and turned to the administrator, who regarded her with arched brows.  
  
"That the guy who asked you to go with him?" he drawled, eyes dropping to the stack of papers in his grasp. Beneath the wavers and legal pads, a copy of the Tattler waved at her, the headline obviously carrying her name. It was nice to know that even professionals turned to the supremely reliable source for the most accurate account of any given situation.  
  
However, Starling did nothing more than snicker. Her current mood was near impossible to diminish. "Yes. That was him."  
  
"Any idea why he wanted you here?"  
  
She arched her brows and issued a dry look. "None whatever. Listen, I'm going to need to rent a car. Do you think you could point me in the right direction?"  
  
The man shook his head and looked down regretfully. "No, ma'am. I'm afraid not. We're not a town that attracts many tourists, as you might imagine. Most traveling folk are just passing through. Aren't you going back to Washington with the rest of them?"  
  
"No. I." Starling trailed off desperately. While improbable, she had been hoping to be rid of pryingly curious eyes as soon as the transfer commenced successfully. She knew she was welcome to ride back to Colorado Springs, and chances were that was her best bet. The thought, however, of being stuck in that automobile again for any set amount of time made her sick. And as it was, she had been informed that the plans currently were to stay the night and refuel after the long drive and start back in the morning. Waiting alongside the crew until they decided they were ready was the last thing on her mind; there was no out, nor any hope of making it to the airport on time. Something forewarned that no one aboard that vehicle would give a rat's rump about her reservations. Smiling kindly, she offered a shrug of concession. "I'm off duty for a couple weeks."  
  
"Vacation?"  
  
She nodded. "A break."  
  
The man offered a sympathetic look, surprisingly honest. "And it's out of your way, wherever you're headed? Well, listen, ma'am." He turned his pen to a clean edge of one of the Tattler's pages and began jotting something down hurriedly. "Go to this address and give this to my wife. She'll set you up with my pickup. It runs like a dream on the ice and all you have to do is fill 'er up. Once you get to Colorado Springs, go to Joe's Auto Shop and ask for Bob Porter. Tell him I sent you and he'll be sure I get the car back."  
  
The onslaught of helpfulness began and ended with such definitive force that Starling had to take a minute to reflect. It had been a long while since anyone did anything for her out of the kindness of their heart; to be on the receiving end of such a deal from a stranger nearly took her breath away.  
  
Her first instinct, though, was to decline. An offer that good could not be without its holes. However, her sense of cabin fever was increasing and made her want to lash out at every familiar face. To turn down such an honestly construed proposal in this hour of desperation was the extremity of foolishness. Simply because benevolence wasn't encountered everyday didn't mean it failed to exist.  
  
"Thanks," she said in no attempt to mask her surprise. "You're really very.I have no idea how I'm going to repay you, but-"  
  
The man-whose nametag read Jack McArthur, she took time to note-stepped back and grinned, bringing up his hands in repudiation. "No, no. The biggest thing you could do for me is stop by The Short Stop for supper before you leave and say I sent you. Maybe Marie will take a couple bucks off my tab."  
  
Starling smiled and nodded, taking the offered slip of paper and pocketed it after going over the information briefly. "Will do. Thank you very much, Mr. McArthur. You have no idea how much I appreciate this."  
  
"Well, something tells me we owe you for a quiet transfer." He uncovered the Tattler and held it up to eye level. "Not my usual reading material, but the missus saw it this morning at the grocery store and thought I might be interested. They even named me specifically."  
  
It was easy to detect. Someone had taken a highlighter to the pages and sketched the two places Jack McArthur was mentioned. However, her eyes only briefly lingered on the text. She was too easily distracted by the headline.  
  
SPECIAL AGENT CLARICE STARLING MODERATES TRANSFER TO 'KEEP THE PEACE'  
  
The affect of seeing her name in print was notably distinct from the man standing opposite her. It was not the first time, and something churned in her stomach to warn it certainly was not the last.  
  
She offered a thin grin. "I didn't do much, you know. Just sat there and took his yapping."  
  
"Something tells me it could've been a lot worse. I see a lot of people here. We learn not to underestimate a man like that. Accept a favor, Agent Starling. No strings. I won't take no for an answer."  
  
Starling chuckled appreciatively. It was eerily reminiscent of southern hospitality. "Then I won't turn you down. What's your wife's name?"  
  
"Rhonda. She'll try to give you some homemade brownies. She always makes brownies the day of a transfer. Makes for something to look forward to. They're delicious, and you'll find that she doesn't take no for an answer, either."  
  
"I'll keep that in mind." Starling started away. She knew the others would be leaving soon, and she needed a ride to the address. "Thank you again. Thank you a thousand times over."  
  
One of the US Marshals accompanying the transfer-Thom Nelson, she believed, was waiting for her when the peculiar trade commenced. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable leaving her to follow the word of a man she had never before met. However, she adamantly ignored his advice and requested in the politest of manners to be dropped off at the indicated address.  
  
When Rhonda McArthur was through scrutinizing the note scribbled by her husband, she looked up and offered a warm smile, ushering Starling inward. It wasn't often, she explained, that they were honored with visitors. Most of their family lived close by-none out of state. The woman was in the mood for chitchat; prying into bits of her life that Starling relinquished with hesitation, indulging in brief answers with minute details. She kindly tolerated the cross-examination as best she could, though was careful to leave subtle hints as to her strict timetable. Starling wanted to be out of town before sundown; something told her the roads grew more hazardous with nightfall. The two-hour drive would likely extend, and while the local meteorologist predicted a few hours of daylight remaining, transfer days always sped after the heart of the job was complete. When she finished her second brownie, Starling smiled gently and informed Rhonda that it was beyond time to leave.  
  
The truck was spacious and reminded of the one her father owned when she was little. Sensibly, the back was covered to prevent cargo from becoming entrenched in an onslaught of snow.  
  
Colorado was unpredictable this time of year, Rhonda warned her as she was loading the back with her various pieces of luggage. "You say you lived in Montana for a while," she said conversationally, clutching herself tightly as a gust of particularly chilling air took them both by surprise. Rhonda struck her as a grandmotherly figure; a woman who wanted children but had never had them. While her husband hadn't appeared to be Starling's senior by that many years, his wife contradicted his demeanor. She had a lovely face-worn, perhaps, by one too many winters. Her eyes sparkled with life that seemed to burst from every artery. Even on this abbreviated acquaintance, Starling knew that she liked her despite the infallible curious streak, and wouldn't mind visiting again; however unlikely the chances. "That's good. The winters there aren't any friendlier. You'll be a bit more prepared than others here. But watch yourself, dear, especially since you're traveling by yourself. We're almost on the far ends of the earth, here. I've lived in Colorado all my life, and every winter brings new surprises. My husband's father once described it as the dark side of the moon. I agree with him. Do be careful."  
  
"Trust me," Starling returned with a gracious smile. "If I haven't learned by now to be careful, I never will."  
  
Rhonda shook her head in firm disagreement. "No, no.you don't understand. I know you're well equipped to deal with men to the likes of Clark McCallister, and that doctor fellow a few years back. But against Mother Nature, Dearie, your gun and badge can't save you. She doesn't care what your background is or where you went to school. If she's angry, she'll gobble you right up-no questions asked."  
  
If there was a way to respond to such a statement without sounding intimidated, mankind had not yet discovered its path. Thus, there was little she could do beyond offering another smile and a nod of understanding. "I will be careful, Mrs. McArthur," she assured her, climbing into the driver's seat of the truck. "I have a cell phone if I get into any trouble. Besides, I'm simply going to catch my flight, and then I'll be down south for two weeks."  
  
Unconvinced, Rhonda pursed her lips tightly and nodded. "All right, all right. It was a pleasure to meet you, Agent Starling. Drive safely."  
  
"You can count on it."  
  
It was roughly three o'clock in the afternoon when she pulled up to The Short Stop after satisfying the hungry truck's empty gas tank. She made friendly conversation with the locals and sipped at a cup of coffee while waiting for any spur-of-the-moment snowstorm watches before she tackled the highway. Though it was already growing dark out, the Weather Channel failed to report impending treacherous climate conditions. After a half hour, she paid for her coffee and ordered a burger to go.  
  
The waitress, Marie, was a well-proportioned fiery little thing who had a solid liking for cigarettes. It cascaded over the restaurant-an impressive cape that didn't fail in giving the place character. As she tallied Starling's bill, she took a look at her winter layers and emitted a healthy chuckle. "Oh hon," she said, taking a good puff and shaking her head with heavy disbelief. "Tell me that's not all you're wearing on the road."  
  
A moderately substantial jacket covered the sweater that draped Starling's shoulders, along with gloves and a scarf. It was a far cry from a winter coat, but regardless, the warmest piece of clothing she owned. Anything thicker was typically not required in Washington. It grew cold, of course, but adapting to any sort of weather was a talent she was not modest in expressing. Such was almost essential to be a good agent.  
  
"I don't plan on stopping anywhere," Starling retorted, handing over a five. "The heater should get me up to Colorado Springs."  
  
With a snicker, the waitress shrugged and shook her head again, taking the money and turning her attention to the register to make change. "Yeah, whatever," she snorted. "I can always tell when there's an out-of-towner in my diner. You big shots are all alike."  
  
Starling smiled good-naturedly and shrugged, pocketing the dollar and dropping the coins in a container that housed a stuffed basset hound to endorse some nameless charity. "Well, then perhaps it's better that I freeze. Mr. McArthur says hello, by the way. From the penitentiary. He wanted to know if referring customers would account for any reduction off his tab."  
  
It took that much for Marie to forget the nature of their conversation. With a winning smile and another long drag of her cigarette, she chuckled knowingly and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, that sounds like Jack. Old Jackson. Jack-A-Roo. Tell him in his dreams."  
  
"I would, ma'am, but I doubt I'll see him again." Starling began backing for the door. "At least not on this visit."  
  
Marie squinted and looked out the window. "Ain't that his truck out there? I reckon I'd know Jackson's truck anywhere."  
  
"He's loaning it to me for the trip."  
  
"Family friend?"  
  
She smiled. "No. Complete stranger. Who's to say chivalry is dead? He offered his help and I accepted."  
  
"All right. Well, maybe next time he'll lend you his coat. Or some common sense." The waitress's brows arched pointedly as she turned to refill the mug of one of her regulars. "Seems to me you could use both."  
  
With a pleasant though forced smile, Starling shrugged and muttered a farewell before moving for the door. She didn't know which was colder; the climate she was leaving or the one she was embracing.  
  
The drive commenced without culmination. Though unaccustomed to driving on icy roads, she was not completely unaware of how to navigate the sheering wheel. Careful and fluent, vigilant not to accelerate too much and to pump the breaks rather than slam down hard, as was her custom.  
  
In the quiet of the vehicle, it was the first she was allowed to pause and reflect on the day she had had. Though their acquaintance was brief and would never be rekindled, Starling felt bizarre in knowing she would never have to tolerate the abhorrent gaze of Clark McCallister again. It felt as though the dregs of his existence had settled over her skin. A haunting reminder of the weirdest day she had yet to see.  
  
If his motive had been headlines, then he would not be disappointed. However, she could not help but suspect there was something further to his irregular interest in her. There was not a doubt in her mind that it was in some way connected to Dr. Lecter. Through the past couple days, McCallister made no move to cloud his manifest curiosity in the passing of their relationship, and the even greater desire to cut in. Almost like a jealous lover.  
  
The conversation she had with Mapp the previous evening returned in indication, and even the discussion she held with the prisoner two days earlier. For the first time, she considered the wisdom behind her actions that dreary Tuesday afternoon. Perhaps his motives hadn't been as much the love of headlines as it was the want to further their acquaintance. Crawford often said that most serial killers acted in such a fashion that suggested an aspiration to be captured. By the books, as many things were. He had even proposed one evening, tired and likely the result from fatigue, that capture was indeed the motive behind Lecter's escape.  
  
"Chilton taunted him before Memphis, you know," he had said resignedly. "Likely threatened him with the lack of notoriety that was awaiting his later years. I wonder sometimes if he decided to escape simply for the reminder to the public that he was still an actively lethal madman." Crawford had leaned back with a weary yawn, removing his glasses to rub his nose. It was times like those that he seemed really old to her. Old and tired-bitter with age and living on the remnants of failure rather than the more copious odes to his success. "He'll resurface someday when no one expects it. Try to be unpredictable. But don't be fooled as to his motive, Starling. In the end, all they crave, all the ever crave, is to be caught. To have their five minutes of fame. Lecter's had that already, so he'll wait until he's sure he can make the second time around so godawful that he goes straight from the police car to the needle."  
  
There was some layer of truth to his hypothesis, but Starling would not voice the areas in which their opinions conflicted. That was one of the several areas of agreement she shared with Dr. Lecter. A mantra she recited to herself when lost on a principally difficult case; one that couldn't help but escape her lips now.  
  
"Life is too slippery for books."  
  
Her mouth formed a poignant smile. However, her mind tripped back to the ambush of melodrama circulating the situation she was leaving now. A nagging voice forewarned that, if he had truly wanted to, McCallister had had the means to remain carefree and in the habit he claimed to enjoy so thoroughly for as long as he liked. The suggestion had never been voiced, but she couldn't help the notion that one of the reasons he was captured was for the willingness to be found. That not only was his sentencing worth the chance to meet her, but also the transfer that ensued the rest of his days in a hell hole that drove even the most stable minds past the brink of insanity.  
  
Isolation was often worse than death.  
  
By five o'clock, snow was coming down in sheets. The active windshield wipers kept the road in plain view, though it had been long abandoned all except for the occasional car that crept at the same agonizingly slow pace down the highway. Every time the truck slipped, she clutched the steering wheel closer, berated herself for the blunder-however nonexistent-and continued at a slower speed until her momentum regained its confidence. Her last high arrived when she crossed the Arkansas River, obtaining a shroud of relief that slithered up her spine-the last bit of comfort the night would offer.  
  
It wasn't until hour three crept by that her previously unmovable resilience began to decline. Starling's lips were growing chapped and she realized the heater had betrayed her with an unexpected ambush of cold air. It only lasted for a minute. She had long ago shed her jacket and resigned it to the passenger seat, and while she didn't miss its presence, she could not deny the shivers crawling through her insides. Frightening thoughts of the various alter motives of serial killers were her inward companion. Such was what she always considered the worst side of her occupation. Not only did she have to cope with these inhuman monstrosities, she had to attempt to think like them. To crawl inside the space that was very much their own and decipher what made them tick. It didn't matter when a case instigated or ended-the resounding evidence of the manifest evils committed replayed with a continuous stream of apathy.  
  
By eight o'clock that evening, she was to the brink of panic. Snow was falling in clumps, shadowing any possibility of further movement down the way. The roads were too icy to hazard travel-especially since she was migrating north. Though one to religiously stick to the map, Starling had to acknowledge that she was lost.  
  
"That's it," she muttered to herself encouragingly, the first words to leave her in hours. "Admittance of a problem is the first step to correcting it."  
  
The brief period of recovery lasted only a second. Without warning, the front tire hit a patch of rime, catching her thoroughly off guard. Starling gasped loudly, clutching the wheel and slamming her foot on the break hard without thinking about it. A screeching sound tackled the air as she lost control of the back end, the truck divulging at an angle until completely saturated in a bank of snow and ice.  
  
As her breathing calmed and her mind raced to catch up with her body, Starling pulled off one of her gloves and hit the steering wheel accusingly. "A dream on ice," she murmured. "Right."  
  
It took a few minutes to get herself oriented enough to brave the world outside. She reached for her jacket and bundled herself amply, as much as the fabric would allow. The gloves found their way over her hands once more before she fumbled for the door handle.  
  
Having not ridden in a truck for a long time and in the midst of her new desperate state of being, she forgot the first long step to the ground, and consequentially crashed on her side. A piece of renegade ice sliced through her pant leg and cut a fair chunk of skin away. Starling immediately clamped her teeth down on her tongue to divert the pain and keep herself from screaming. It took a few seconds for her breathing to regulate, even longer to pull herself up. Wearily, she slumped against the truck, confessing inwardly that perhaps this wasn't the hottest game plan.  
  
When she had herself sufficiently calmed, she turned to climb back into the truck to collect her cell phone. Sighing heavily, she slid outside once more and lifted the device to the air in search for a signal. There was none.  
  
"No, no, no. You can't do this to me." She knew it was futile, but attempted to dial anyway with no success. "Oh fuck it, come on," she growled in aggravation. "Give me a break."  
  
Surveying the rest of the damage, Starling concluded the front tire was imminently useless. It appeared the shard of ice had punctured a healthy hole in the front, thus further travel of any sort was a dangerous gamble. Snow was crusting on her hair and coating a white sheath across her jacket. The only sounds perforating the air were that of her breathing, heavy as she failingly attempted to sedate herself. Warmth awaited inside the truck, but for how long? The battery would die before morning if she left it running all night, and the chances of encountering another vehicle along this road, chiefly a Good Samaritan, were slim to none.  
  
When all else failed, she double-checked the back for a spare and a jack. A jack she found-there was no spare.  
  
"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me."  
  
A second attempt at the cell phone resulted in its being thrown in wan frustration to a snowy tomb. She offered a throaty growl of contempt, moving around to the hood of the truck where she folded her arms and let her head fall in despair.  
  
When she looked up, she halfway expected the scene before her to have enveloped into some living nightmare. However, it all remained the same. A tan truck, growing cold from its recent disuse, a cell phone glowing in pathetic futility from a small alcove of white powder, and.  
  
What was that?  
  
Starling frowned and took a few steps forward, ignoring a wince of minor pain that shot up her leg. In the distance, what appeared to be an establishment sat as a black cloud against the otherwise starless sky. It looked to be maybe a half-mile away, if she was lucky. Regarding her current position, Starling knew not to cross her fingers. However, the chance that she might have, could have crashed near a sliver of civilization caused a quiver of hope to slink through her system. Her eyes pried for a sign of another vehicle, or any form of life, but there was none.  
  
But there was no denying what she saw.  
  
It was a house.  
  
  
  
* * * 


	6. House Search

Author's Note: Hi all.  I know it's been a…well, LONG time since I last posted.  Needless to say, there's been a lot going on IRL to distract me from the glorious life of fanfic.  Hopefully everyone still remembers me, and the storyline.  I promise to post until it's finished—however long it takes—but after that I can't guarantee that I will be around with any regularity until life gets less-hectic.  

That being said, thanks to everyone for the fun it's been so far.  I miss this a lot.

  
Disclaimer: The characters herein with the exception of Clark McCallister are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission for entertainment purposes and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
  
Chapter Six   
  
  
With a heaving sigh, Starling threw the passenger door open and began searching for anything of use. The glove compartment offered little more assistance than the vehicle registration and an atlas of Colorado. Her ears were playing tricks on her: every time she lowered her head, a roaring car engine sounded in the distance. When she snuck a peak, however, there was no sign of approaching headlights and whatever sounds her mind conjured faded into oblivion. It was simply further confirmation that every sensible resident had long ago abandoned the dangerous roads. There would be no help from passing travelers. It was a reality she had known since crashing, but had to be sure before yielding to plod a half-mile through knee-high snow to a stranger's house for help.   
  
As it was, options were limited and she knew she was stalling. With a heavy breath, Starling looked again to the cottage. It was hardly a fraction of what she usually jogged on the course at Quantico away, but the distance seemed to stretch for miles. With the added complication of snow, it might very well take her an hour just to reach the front door. However, particulars in this case didn't seem to matter. There was no choice.   
  
And when she arrived, who was to say that the residents were friendly? Certainly they would abide the request of a federal officer, but she didn't want to demand room and board for the night and suffer the hostility of a negative atmosphere. Never before had she thought she might have to use her status as an agent to seek shelter. It seemed an old trick.   
  
Edging out of the truck, Starling groaned wearily and rested again on the vehicle's hood. She berated herself for pinching for time, but a part of her screamed that as soon as she was out of comfortable reach, a car would drive by, even if common sense assured her it was beyond impossibility. There was no sound for miles. Still, should she start out, Starling knew the probability fell heavily against her favor. It was Mapp who said it best: "Chances are, babe, it ain't gonna happen…but if it does, it'll happen to you."  
  
Regardless, she certainly couldn't linger out here all night. It was freeze here or freeze on the way to safety. Drawing in a breath of concession, she nodded to herself and pulled away from the truck. The night wasn't getting any younger, or she any warmer.   
  
With obvious precision, Starling concluded the very palpable fact that she could not drag all her luggage through the feet of accumulating snow. The handbag in the passenger seat carried her gun and badge. She chose the latter of the two; not about to go traipsing through acres of snow and ice with the flagrant chance that she would slip and fall with a gun attached to her waist. No, the badge would definitely be more useful. All that besides, she dived into her luggage and layered herself in the supplementary sweater she had packed in preparation for the long drive. A thorough search of her remaining clothing resulted in nothing that would keep herself insulated. For a fun bonus, the journey was slightly uphill, and seemed to stretch its proximity by the minute.   
  
Performing a last scan, Starling located a small flashlight she had somehow missed upon first inspection in the glove compartment. There was nothing else to take. She locked the trunk up, emptied her gun's cartridge into the snow as a precaution, tossed it into the back and started on her way.  
  
Snow was falling in clumps, blurring her vision and cascading a white sheath around her objective. The house appeared and disappeared with regularity, mounting the coldness until it—too—would stand only a hilltop of white powder. The ground itself was nothing of an improvement. Twice she slipped. Twice she commended herself for not bringing a firearm.  
  
"That's all America needs," she muttered to keep herself occupied. "Starling on ice with a gun. Some ice-capades that would make."  
  
Every time she looked up, the house was further away. Starling refrained from becoming discouraged. The evolutionary sixth sense said to be possessed by all good FBI agents kicked into automatic pilot, busying her with assurance that all was well within its structure. However, in response, a deeper part of herself—the rationale she always ignored—sprung to fervent life. It was the preemptory intelligence that forewarned when she was pushing her luck to the pivotal edge.  
  
It was what had made her say she had a bad feeling about loading Clark McCallister onto that plane. Nine out of ten times, it failed its prediction. Mostly in warning. A calling that she at least needed to be on guard.  
  
In the same manner, brushing such feelings off was a progressively growing talent. Thus far, the notion hadn't gotten her into serious trouble. After all, where would she or Catherine Martin be if she had followed her senses and rejected Crawford's assignment to interview the madman within the dungeon? The price was cheap enough—layers of psychological deterioration and the best mind fuck of the century.   
  
Still, she cautioned herself. Before she knew it; the cabin was near. Standing in front of her—a matter of a few feet away. As her pulse raced with the thought of a warm heater and perhaps some coco inside, she lent herself pause with a chilling caution. "Watch it Starling. This is exactly how it ended for Janet Leigh."   
  
That was not the most comforting thought to conjure in the present situation. She gave herself a swift mental kick for her reading selection along the trip. Remembering such unfortunate tidings while journeying toward a dark house distance off a cold country road in the middle of a Colorado snowstorm was not the best incentive.   
  
The ineffectual layers of her jacket were beginning to fail her—and her fingers had numbed beyond all feeling. Her legs were sodden for falling so often. She reached the porch and slipped a last time on a patch of ice crusting over the first step. A string of curses escaped her lips as she pulled herself up, reaching for the railing until nearly colliding with the front door.  
  
Minute details became distinct at this proximity. She saw there was a porch light, but that it and all lamps inward remained dimmed. The cabin wasn't spacious, and she could tell there were no telling car tracks rounding the corner of the veranda. It meant nothing, of course. The residents could have received advanced warning and wisely stayed put indoors. That would not explain why they had not stirred during her approach. Starling knew how sound carried—she had not exactly been quiet on the jaunt up the hill.   
  
A terrible thought occurred. Maybe there were no residents. Maybe this was simply a winter resort for a family and was currently uninhabited. It didn't appear to be a place to establish permanent housing. Though it was dark out, the hour was still early. Any children would undoubtedly be up in celebration for the obvious absence of a school day come the morrow. Or maybe not, Starling reflected. Perhaps she was simply engraved in the habit of late nights and early awakenings that anything else seemed out of the question.  
  
The lack of lights made something unpleasant fall in her stomach. Still, she heaved a breath and withdrew her badge. If anything, there had to be a phone inside.  
  
"Cabins don't have phones," she muttered discouragingly as she began to knock. She waited and counted to a hundred. Nothing. "This can't be happening to me." Another few seconds passed before she pounded on the door once more. Inside, a floorboard creaked, but it was likely her imagination.  
  
A throaty growl tore at her vocals. Options were limited, and while she didn't favor of breaking in, it wouldn't do to travel all the way back to the truck only to freeze before morning. She tried the knob but knew already it was locked.   
  
"Well, Ardie, you're right about one thing…" Starling observed as she backed a pace from the door. "If has to happen to _someone, _it's going to happen to _me." _  
  
The door caved with appropriate force and she was surprised to be welcomed by a warm front of air. Why would anyone keep a winter home heated?   
  
Her conviction began to waver. Though inside offered little light and no one came rushing to the foyer to investigate the forceful entry, the feeling in the pit of her stomach reclaimed her with overwhelming strength. It was an unlikely trepidation, but it made her uneasy just the same. Releasing a quivering breath, Starling progressed with caution and waited for her eyes to adjust. The first thing she came in contact with was a sofa—a nice, comfortable sofa. Its sudden presence took her off guard, and she rolled with a grunt to the floor, slamming her elbow onto what appeared to be a coffee table.  
  
"Fuck!" she screamed, then gasped. Her hand immediately clamped her mouth and she waited for some angry hick to stumble into the room and blow her away with a shotgun.  
  
Nothing.  
  
It took no further convincing. Starling knew she was in the house alone. Heaving a sigh, she allowed herself to relax. She needed a light and a phone, and was fortunate enough to locate both in the same setting. The light took her unprepared eyes by surprise and sent her back to the sofa in impact.   
  
"I feel like I'm caught in a bad sitcom," Starling said aggregately, needing to hear someone—even if it was herself—break the silence. She fought her way over a decorator pillow and reached for the receiver.   
  
The phone offered no dial tone. No helpful operator. Nothing. It took her a minute to realize the dangerous turn of her predicament, and instead of try again ineffectually to summon one out of God's good humor, she sank in defeat onto the settee. Of course, the storm would have rendered the phone lines useless. The Colorado atmosphere worked on the expectations of a Stephen King enthusiast.  
  
So she was stuck in the middle of nowhere with a busted tire of a truck that would likely be buried under a mount of snow come morning. Her wet clothing stung her skin until she felt all remaining sensory fade away. Though she did not question her good judgment in leaving her suitcases to face the cold alone, her insides shuddered and begged to be relieved of the frosted sheathing.   
  
The rest of the cabin merited searching. Drawing in a breath, Starling rose to one quaky leg, tested it, and took a few steps forward. Movement felt good despite fatigue and she made about the exploration of the rest of the house. Though unfortunate, she forced herself to admit the uncanny luck in losing control of the wheel when she did. Had only a few minutes passed and she would have been stranded all night.   
  
Then she remembered her cell was still in the truck and an exasperated growl tore at her throat. The mere thought made her stomach wrench in knots; a very familiar feeling of languidness overcoming her better conclusions with the telling warning that any attempt to reach it tonight would be ineffective. Rationale countered with temptations to suck it up and make the journey again, that there was nothing to lose, but her body sensibly rebelled and promised the trip would be made in the morning. The signal she had not been able to acquire would likely be reached from this altitude, but it was futile to think she could get all the way down there and back without suffering some injury, especially with as tired as she was. No, tomorrow. Tomorrow after she had rested.   
  
After all, it was only one night.   
  
Inhaling deeply, Starling concluded the wisest thing she could do at this point was search the premises and hopefully locate something—anything—to change in to. Even her inner layers were wet with melted snow. Taking the first good look around, she drew in the sight that was the cabin. The sofa she would likely rest upon that night was indeed adjacent to a coffee table, a television pushed against the farthest wall. To her left was a door she assumed led to the kitchen, beside it a lovely antique piano, and behind a few stairs elevated to a small portico and three closed rooms. She found the heater without much of a search; it roared puffs of warm air in the space between the television and the kitchen.  
  
The cabin was cozy—too cozy.  
  
At that, Starling rolled her eyes, sinking into the couch with growing irritation. "That's right, C. Crash a stranger's car, break into _another _stranger's cabin and bitch about the living conditions. You're such an _excellent _houseguest."   
  
It was easy to be angry with herself for this, but easier to focus the blame on Clark McCallister. Or Crawford, or Pearsall, or—hell—even, Dr. Lecter. Hadn't each whispered and revived ghosts of her past and persuaded her to take this crazy assignment? For what exactly? The transfer had gone off without a problem in sight.   
  
_But it wouldn't have if you hadn't been there, _a sagacious inner voice assured her. _Wasn't that the reason you came to begin with? _  
  
Another sigh coursed through her and her indignation—minor as it was—drained without much influence. She forced herself to confession that at this point it was easier to be angry with _anyone _rather than face the burden herself. That, naturally, led her to another conclusion. It was simply easy to be angry.   
  
At last she coaxed herself to her feet, rubbed her eyes tiredly, and approached the television. She had no intention of watching anything, but the background noise while she searched the cabin would offer empty comfort. There was an old black and white vampire movie playing on one station, an infomercial on the next, and a seasonally outdated but oddly comforting airing of _Irving Berlin's 'A White Christmas' _on the last she inspected. It spurned a bittersweet memory. In the fond though steadily growing muddled recollections of her childhood, she recalled curling up in her father's lap after her siblings had retired late on Christmas Eve, solely to listen to old Bing sing it like none other could.  
  
Starling bit her lip. After her father died, she promised herself that good memories would never be tainted by association. It was a pledge that grew progressively more difficult to keep as she gained age and her disposition waned toward astringent.   
  
But watching the screen brought a smile to her face. She had not seen this in years, quite possibly since the last shared with her father.   
  
_When I'm worried, and I can't sleep  
I count my blessings instead of sheep  
And I fall asleep counting my blessings. _  
  
Perhaps there was a reason for such things. Starling emitted a long breath as a pain struck somewhere in her middle. However, she did not change the channel. It was this or infomercials, and she didn't have the patience to surf for an alternative, nor did her frigid insides. Tearing herself away, she began with the kitchen.   
  
First the cabinets. Basics. Canned food, coffee and a coffee maker—_ (yes! Thank GOD!)— _bread, several slabs of what she presumed was ham, several out-of-place bottles of wine in the back cupboards…things would last until whatever help she reached arrived.   
  
Starling didn't hesitate; she leapt for the coffee maker and began brewing a pot that would hopefully be ready by the time she wrapped the rest of the self-guided tour. Her chattering teeth and numbed skin demanded heated compensation—a lot of it. As she made her way to explore the bedrooms, she pulled the sweater over her head and stripped until she was wearing her undershirt, casually placing the excess clothing over the heater. With every minute she was growing more comfortable with the knowledge that she was temporarily marooned and there was nothing she could do about it. There was no shame in getting as relaxed as possible.   
  
She told herself this as she kicked her boots off and arranged her jeans and sweats next to the sheaths of additional clothing. Satisfied they would be dry when she was finished with the tour, she made her way to the alcove heading the four steps of suspension from the lower ground.   
  
One study. One lavatory. One bedroom. All neat and symmetrical—tidy and efficient. The bedchamber was comfortable enough on first glance, but it felt intrusive to stand there—more so than the living area had. A bedroom was a sanctuary from the rest of the household; she and Mapp had this understanding. They rarely burst into each other's rooms unless it was essential.   
  
Still, her chilled skin required dry clothing. With aching strands of trepidation, Starling stepped for the closet, coiled her hand around the knob, decided against it, and instead went for the armoire. Several dress shirts hung inside along with suit jackets and a few ties. It was dark and she wasn't interested in examining brand names. Instead, she went for the dresser. There was a dry undershirt waiting for her in the first drawer, several pairs of boxers—none of which she touched—and nothing else that appeared to be of use. With a shrug, she turned away, stripped the last of her upper clothing and replaced it with the warmth of dry fabric. It was comfortably larger than she was used to wearing.  
  
By the time she managed her way downstairs, her sweats were close to resembling dry. Starling had situated them to saturate the most heat. As she wiggled into them again, replacing them with her discarded undershirt, she ventured again into the kitchen to pour whatever coffee had been brewed.   
  
On screen, the disgruntled damsel was singing about how love hadn't done right by her.  
  
Starling searched and found a mug, moved for the refrigerator again before remembering that there would be no milk. That lent her pause and she frowned, overcome by an unexpected sense of déjà vu. She had already searched the refrigerator without considering…and she could have sworn…   
  
She drew the door open and froze. There was milk in there. Its expiration date was in a little less than a week.  
  
The realization sent cold shudders down her spine as her gasp sounded loudly and perturbed the now-quiet air. _Quiet. _It was then she realized the television had been shut off, and that the lamps she ignited on the other side of the door were now dimmed.   
  
Instinctually, Starling grew deathly still, her agent's ears perking to detect a sound—any sound—that would betray the presence of another. There was nothing. No creaks in the already-noisy floorboards, no coughs, no suspicious, "Hey! Who's in here?" from a panicked resident.   
  
This meant nothing. The preemptory sense that had originally been shunned for its lack of intuitive sprang to fervent life and howled a series of inward warning bells. She stood in the kitchen wearing the owner's undershirt and a pair of almost-dry sweats. Her heart hammered wildly against her chest. There was no denying it. She was not alone in the house.  
  
And from the mimic of silence on the other side, the signs that screamed predator, the owner was not only home: he was hunting keenly for the trespasser.  
  


* * * 


	7. The Big Bad

Author's Note: Hah hah! Well, that took all of three days.  I'm afraid to say the next chapter won't come with the same rapidity—I can't estimate when I'll get another chance to write.  

Disclaimer: The characters herein with the exception of Clark McCallister are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission for entertainment purposes and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
  
Chapter Seven   
  
  
Once upon a time, darkness would have intimidated her. Slinking in shadows, relying only on altered perceptions to maneuver across otherwise unknown terrain. The past few years, however, had allowed her relationship with darkness to blossom. They knew each other well now. Were good friends. Old colleagues. Far was she from the rookie who timidly explored the underground of a killer's lair. No, she was prepared. Educated. Already the situation had improved from her last trudge through the shadows, and immediately her mind mapped out the floor plan of the cabin. Every inch she had explored had to be considered. Every piece of furniture positioned across the antique carpet in the foyer. Every creak in the floorboards. Every…  
  
Fine. She wasn't as prepared as she would have liked, but she had control. Sort of.   
  
She had no phone and her gun rested a half-mile downhill in a truck situated under an accumulating mound of snow. Furthermore, the phone lines were out and she had no idea what to expect on the other side.  
  
Nothing but darkness.  
  
Starling had to draw in a sharp breath and remind herself that she was still standing in the lit kitchen. A tiny voice screamed not to overreact, but her extra-sensory discernment was ringing off the charts. The same she had initially ignored upon treading through knee-high snow to get in this position. The same that was always right, no matter how desperately she tried to shut it out.  
  
There wasn't much in sight that would be of any use should the situation turn hostile. A properly folded washcloth rested beside the sink and a pair of decorative oven mitts were thoughtfully placed next to the oven. As quietly as possible, she tiptoed to the far cabinets and began rummaging. The first drawer lucky, it clanked metallically when she pulled it open, but there wasn't the time to flinch. A few ineffectual objects were at her disposal: a spatula, an egg beater, and…  
  
Starling grasped the handle of a butcher knife and held it to eye level, quirking a brow skeptically. A true, honest-to-god-you-would-only-find-one-of-these-in-movies butcher knife. There wasn't time to debate the likelihood; she whispered a thanks to her fickle though infallible fortune and whirled to face the kitchen entry. She had half-expect it to open while her attention was otherwise occupied, but the door remained untouched. Standing there between herself and the other occupant of the house. Between herself and the useless automobile that was lost in a bank of snow. Between herself and her gun.   
  
The silence was beginning to ebb her. It always had—even more so than darkness. There was a time and place for silence. In the cool of the night, silence was more than welcome. A pleasant alternative to her customary routine—anything to keep the lambs from screaming. It worked side-by-side with her to wan away bad dreams, covering her in its protective sheath so she might acquire the much-needed rest.  
  
Or it had, once upon a time. Starling couldn't remember the last time she enjoyed a goodnight's sleep.  
  
Silence when she was on the prowl was indisputably not appreciated. Her trained ears strained to hear anything; a crack in the floorboards, a sigh, a thoughtful muse or a string of inward monologue that somehow escaped through the mouth. Nothing. There was no evidence other than the darkness and the silence to even suggest that she wasn't still alone in the cabin.  
  
An uncomfortable churning in the pit of her stomach articulated its opposition and moved for strike. The tiny voice she had long ago shunned as coward told her it wasn't too late; she could break a window and make it to the car before whoever stood between her and the front door could complete the search.  
  
If indeed they were searching. Although she had been quiet, it was not difficult to differentiate the sound of authentic silence to that of muffled noise. No, there was no way out.   
  
Of course, there was also that miniscule chance that she was blowing this entirely out of proportion. Starling was rarely wrong in such instances but not entirely opposed to the idea that it was beyond probability. Other than the awkward behavior that ensued after the television had snapped off, there was nothing to suggest the owner—or whoever—had the slightest bit of malicious intent.  
  
Nothing but the growing knot in her stomach and the voice that screamed very loudly in the back of her head: **_THISISBAD! _**  
  
Creep around or walk through the fire. There was a point of no return somewhere, and she had likely stumbled over it the minute she crossed the threshold. Drawing in a breath, Starling shook her head clear and started for the door. Her hands were slick and sweaty around the knife handle and she felt she could drop it anytime. Or that it would simply liquefy and drip into a batch of nothingness on the floor. One of the two. Give or take.  
  
She felt so naked without her gun.  
  
Opening the door wasn't as difficult as she had construed it to be. Years working with the Bureau had eased in the inward prep talk to a considerable minimal three-word twine of encouragement. Brief and effective; what everyone needed to get the job done. It got many through the complicated tasks simply for the knowledge that there was no alternative. Her interpretation was slightly less conventional.  
  
_All right. It's a door. Open it now! _  
  
The frame creaked loudly in announcement of her overcoming qualm and darkness consequentially engulfed her. Not unadventurous, comfortable darkness: the full shebang. Pitch black. Even the light emitting from the kitchen behind her seemed to shy at the challenge and only illuminated the pathway a few feet. A number of stakeouts had trained her eyes to adjust with animalesque reflexes, but the trait betrayed her now. There was simply nothing to see. It was as if someone had cleanly blown the room and all of existence away.   
  
But that wasn't what frightened her. The scene was familiar. A scene of _nothingness _was familiar. Achingly so. Starling drew in a deep, audible breath and bit her lip.   
  
Where did she know this?  
  
Realization was a funny thing. It strikes at the most opportune times perhaps once in a blue moon; more often than not plaguing you with that nagging _I know I know this from **somewhere **_before the topic eventually wears out and you fold in frustration. Starling had spent a good part of her career altering her perception to the brink of making an instant-association with any semblance of former awareness. It bothered her when connecting the dots failed to come naturally. However, the lapse only lasted a minute—then everything was painstakingly clear.  
  
This was her dream. The blackness. The lost feeling of desperation. Add a horse and a mad doctor and she was three seconds from coloring herself psychic.   
  
_Something tells me I shouldn't have thought about that. _  
  
Exerting another deep breath, Starling grasped hold of her fear and took a courageous step forward. When she didn't fall off the face of the earth, she braced herself for another. And another. Three steps inward and she recalled there was a couch somewhere in the middle of the room, along with a coffee table. The piano was in the corner, and the stairs to its left.   
  
This, of course, was all committed to memory and risked the high prospect of registering as null and void. For all she knew, the piano might have been in the kitchen on top of the microwave. The picture presented by her memory blurred into a massive puzzle with pieces strewn all the way across the board.   
  
She bumped into something. Long, hard, smooth (thankfully inanimate) and near what appeared to be—yes! That was the staircase. Starling felt her way to the piano bench as she attempted to calm her breathing, seated herself awkwardly and stilled.  
  
Silence again.  
  
For the first time since leaving the kitchen, a shot of panic shimmied up her spine. Any standard owner—hunter or not—would have confronted the intruder by now. The only sounds she had heard were self-produced, and even then they had fallen to silence with shocking rapidity. It was as if she were stuck in a bad dream.  
  
Perhaps that was all this was. Maybe she was still on the plane, having fallen asleep against her better judgment. Maybe Clark McCallister was sitting just a few seats away, watching her, conspiring as she slept. As of the late, that made the most sense. It was easier to estimate the kindness of the townspeople in Florence as a fantasy world conjured in her bizarre dreamland rather than actuality. With the nightmares she had been having for the past several weeks, it was easy to believe.  
  
Of course, none of her dreams had gone to such a level of realistic detail. And this certainly didn't feel like a dream.  
  
At last her eyes began to adjust. Starling waved her hand across her face and watched the shadow as it passed her line of vision. She couldn't see very far, but far enough to trust herself on her feet. With only that, her tension dropped several nicks and the knot in her stomach began to unravel. Drawing in a deep breath, she supported her weight on the piano and stood.   
  
The single strike of a key sent her straight back to the bench. She hadn't touched a note—she was sure of it. And yet, what sounded like D below middle C rang through the air with frightening clarity. There was no one beside her. No one that could have initiated the sound. No hovering presence, and she hadn't—  
  
Starling paused and frowned, her eye catching a familiar outline in the darkness. There was something so singularly terrifying—   
  
_((familiar! familiar is the word you are looking for)) _  
  
—about this entire experience that she was prepared for any reality.   
  
That was, until, she saw her own face where the music should have been. Several newspaper and magazine headings were in place of written notation. Starling's breath caught in her throat. She had seen each a dozen times—knew each publication date, and had each line dedicated to memory. Several of the images were from years ago: the Memphis incident, the shooting of Jame Gumb, that drug raid she had led two years before, and now the prison transfer. Clark McCallister sharing spotlight with her—his expression very self-satisfied.   
  
And that was it. That was all she could take. Starling jumped to her feet and stumbled backward, catching herself on the bench and falling harshly on her spine. The crash waved through the house with a thundering roar, but she was too far-gone to care. A tinny clank reverberated from her left side as the knife soared out of reach. This was it. This was the part where the Big Bad finally revealed himself, came charging out of the darkness and leapt for her. This was where everything came together right before she pulled out her magic sword and saved the day.  
  
Only nothing happened. The scene remained very much unchanged. Frantically, Starling searched for her only weapon but was blinded with darkness and too impatient to wait more than a few seconds. With haste, she bounded to her feet, looked ineffectually in either direction, and broke for a cold run at the front door. In that minute, it didn't matter that she was barefoot, that she would fall promptly on a patch of ice, and that the only safe-haven was a suspended vehicle a half-mile down a hill of snow. All that mattered was getting out of the cabin. Now.  
  
It took only four words to render her immobile. Four words that shattered through the silence with more force than a thousand mirrors breaking. Four words that resurrected the resounding helplessness of all her recent nightmares, caked with the knowledge that she was not lodged beyond consciousness this time. Oh no, this was real. This was too crazy for even her muddled mind to conjure up.   
  
Four words spoken in that soft, metallic voice she knew all too well.   
  
"Leaving so soon, Clarice?"  
  
That was all it took. Her legs buckled and her eyes snapped shut. She turned to face him with definitive slowness, opening her eyes only when she knew he would see them. Then she drew in a breath, surprised when it didn't catch in her throat.   
  
"It's you."   
  
  


* * * 


	8. Denial

Author's Note: In the words of Spike, "That's right.  I'm back, and I'm a bleedin' animal!  Yeah!"  Heh.  Well, not quite, but you get the picture.  My INTENSE apologies for the…oh god, what's it been?  Two months?  I assure everyone, I'm not dead.  Just very, very, VERY busy.

That being said…hope everyone remembers the story.  

  
Disclaimer: The characters herein with the exception of Clark McCallister are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission for entertainment purposes and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
  
Chapter Eight   
  
  
There was an amused pause that seemed to stretch for hours. Starling knew her breaths couldn't be as loud as they sounded, but at the moment, she was sure they reflected far ways down the highway. A warning for approaching cars. Her unadjusted eyes pried at the darkness. Though there was no sound, she did not doubt his tangible presence flooding the household. Shivers sprouted across her skin and her extra sensory radar was shooting off the charts. And still there was nothing. Nothing but mocking silence.   
  
It was the sort of silence that screamed.   
  
"Doctor?" she whispered when impatience got the better of her.   
  
A beat longer of considerate repose. Starling's inward tinglies jittered once more, as though screaming to run now and hope her ears were playing tricks on her.   
  
That wouldn't do. As always, he sensed her debate. Read her thoughts, and finally found the decency to answer her. "Perhaps you were expecting someone else? Kathy Bates, perchance?"  
  
Starling drew in another quaking breath, almost certain if she could see his eyes, she would see laughter behind them. Humor was never wasted with the doctor, and the present situation certainly offered its share. Predictably, her mind and will betrayed her, rendering her speechless. Stripped and barren. What was there possibly to say in such a situation? The weight of realization was crashing with momentous affect. Little by little.  
  
There would be no leave tonight.   
  
At last she found her voice, several attempts of reciprocated humor rising to mind before inevitable rejection. Dr. Lecter didn't appreciate segues. There was no way she could say something sensical in that regard. Her overworked, fatigued mind simply wouldn't allow it.   
  
"Honestly, with the way my day's been going," she answered finally, "I probably should have seen this one hours in advance."  
  
"Ah. Of course. Your prison transfer." The tone in his voice insinuated a connection of old pals—friends who spoke constantly with a run through of the day's events. She did not realize he had stepped forward until the cold front in front of her vanished, replaced suddenly with the radiating warmth of another body. Exhaustion again threatened to claim her. The consequences of the 'oh now what?' approach to life. "Tell me, did the mind-numbing Mr. McCallister give you much trouble?"   
  
Yeah, he would think McCallister was boring. He wasn't the one who had to listen to his yapping all the way from Washington. The comment did little more than irritate her, her other senses drawn in by the sheath of fictitious habit. Still, she forced her mind to remain sharp. There was no suggestion that the peril of her situation had decreased or enhanced. Dr. Lecter wouldn't give any indications before he struck, if that was indeed his intention.   
  
Best to answer him now. Being trapped in a cabin with a cannibal was bad enough. Being trapped with a testy cannibal commenced the issuance of your own death warrant.   
  
"No trouble." Her voice was barely quaking, but she knew he would hear any indecision. "I'll admit he was a little annoying..." She hazarded a step forward, letting her thought trail. It was best to keep him talking until she found a light. Or her knife. Starling bit her lip. That thought was ridiculous. Even if she could get to the blade, she wouldn't be able to use it. The doctor could see her through the darkness and had the maddening ability to anticipate her every move.   
  
"You may stop there," he said a second later, confirming her silent query. She froze at the arctic command in his voice. When she thought her heart would explode in her chest, she heard a relaxed chuckle. "I wouldn't want you to run into the coat rack."  
  
The infuriating tease in his voice made her shrivel with familiarity. Her thoughts traveled again to the discarded blade, and her inner will collapsed with forthright understanding of her limited options. If she didn't try now, she wouldn't get another chance. Licking her lips, her wrist twitch, and she waited.   
  
Then ran.  
  
He was quick as a cat, directly in front of her before she had the chance to blink. Her arms were suddenly wrenched in a powerful grasp, and she struggled without thought. The tease in his voice only heightened her agitated fear, and she felt his rumbling chuckle against her stomach.  
  
"Ah, ah, ah, ah," Dr. Lecter berated softly. "I much prefer you here where I can see you."  
  
"Easy for you to say," she spat, speaking before she thought.   
  
Another chortle. Good. The longer she kept him humored, the longer she kept herself alive. "My apologies, Officer Starling. My house, my rules."  
  
Her skin tingled where he grasped her, images of a thousand forgotten nightmares (or were they dreams?) springing to mind without much persuasion. When her struggles subsided, he released her and stepped away, and again she was assaulted by a cold front of air.   
  
"I must have the worst luck in history," she mumbled as she stepped back. The motion rose that she should attempt again, and was defeated without an argument. Fighting was useless, especially in this state. And at any rate, he would expect another attempt, not concession. Her mind was racing at full speed, mapping out survival options. Keep the madman amused and guessing. Don't want him bored with you.   
  
"Oh come now, Clarice, you'll hurt my feelings. Are things really so grim? You are terribly far from home. I'd call this turn of luck rather convenient. Better someone you know than a complete stranger." The tease in his voice was hard to miss. She hesitated to think that he sounded different, but there was no denying it. Speaking to a man behind bars diverged greatly when compared to speaking to him after a release, or an escape, in this instance. She had training enough to notice.  
  
"It depends on how you look at things, Doctor," Starling replied, backing up a step, then retracting. It was unwise to display any signs of intimidation. Dr. Lecter knew he could be frightening and required no outward assurance. Such knowledge already gave him an unfair advantage. With her, he was accustomed to gall and confidence, even if she appeared flustered and uncertain. It was how best he liked her. She was alive today for being herself, because the world was more interesting with her in it. There could be no signs of fear. Something told her there wasn't a need.   
  
"Oh?"  
  
"In comparison, I think I'd prefer a group of strangers to the likes of Paul Krendler." Honest to God's truth. If she had found Krendler in here, she would have hauled ass to the truck and frozen to death.  
  
A chuckle of appreciation perturbed the air. Perverse and frightening, even more so than the feeling of normality that seared along with it. As though she were chatting with an old friend she had fallen out with after college. Starling shook her head fiercely, mind mapping ineffectual alternatives around him. She needed to get to that knife.   
  
Yet she didn't move. Through the darkness, she had a vague conception of where he stood. He was discouragingly well concealed in the shadows. It seemed she could see everything else within convenient proximity save the cannibal in the middle of the room. She knew he was near—terribly near. And she didn't move.  
  
A darkly amusing thought rose unwittingly to mind. I'm about to become a member of the Donner Party.   
  
When he again broke the silence, Starling released the breath she had been holding and convinced herself to relax. There wasn't much else she could do, she realized with dreary logic. Another attempt at the discarded kitchen knife might be punished with the confiscation of an invaluable bodily organ, even if she knew that would likely be Lecter's last resort. A man of such ideals would think twice before lashing out toward a woman who made the world more interesting. Especially with the variety of whimsical conclusions this circumstance presented.  
  
"I suppose, then, that we find ourselves at odds once more. What do you propose, Clarice? I, myself, never fancied stumbling across such a promising situation."  
  
Starling bit her lip in contemplation. She still couldn't see him, and that was beginning to ebb her patience. Every time he spoke or allowed her to hear the few perceptible breaths he indulged, he seemed to be in a different location. At once very close, and again at the other side of the room.   
  
It was only when she sighed in exasperation and dropped the protective pretense that she finally etched his outline from the darkness. He was standing not terribly far from her, allowing her room enough for comfort. What little light emanated into the room seemed to be drawn to the pupils of his eyes. She wondered how on earth it had taken her so long to see him.   
  
"I'm stuck here," she decided anticlimactically.  
  
"It would appear so."  
  
"I'm stuck in a cabin in the middle of a snowstorm with you."   
  
"Your perception and recitation of the obvious is most astute, my dear." The tease in his tone made her fluster. She had heard that voice in too many contexts and it was beginning to make her head spin. "I take it this doesn't happen to you regularly?"  
  
"Every day," Starling snickered, throwing her hands up in irritation. In the heat of things, she finally lost whatever grasp of control she had on her warring conscious and let it erupt. I knew it. I knew today had gone by far too smoothly to be a picture of my life. I mean, what were the odds that the transfer with so much riding on it would go over without a hitch? She grumbled and banished unhelpful thoughts away and allowed herself to ask the dreaded question. "So…what now?"  
  
"I really cannot say, Clarice. Much of that is up to you. Under whatever circumstances, you have been willed my guest, and I will do everything to accommodate you until the weather dies." In semblance of truce, he showed open palms, red tint in his eyes glinting keenly at her. "You have my word—no harm will come to you while you are under this roof."  
  
Starling knew he was speaking the truth. There was no need to question the sincerity or validation behind the doctor's given word. The same way she knew Crawford was going to have a hay-day when she didn't call him tomorrow afternoon. The same way she knew Mapp would start out the day by hitting her alarm clock until she slept in, because there was no Starling there to wake her. The same way she knew Dr. Lecter's idea of accommodations likely included fine wine and chamber music. She just knew.   
  
That didn't clear anything up, though. There was still the very palpable issue that he was a convicted felon, infamous for his crimes. The sort of fellow that struck fear in the hearts of the pure while they tried desperately to conceive the darkness of his character didn't tickle their fancy in that horribly curious way. So they were going to make nice for however long they were stuck together. Then what? What happened once the snow cleared away? There was no way she could leave him here—let him continue in full disregard of the law she worked so hard to preserve. Similarly, doubts on her part would be detected immediately, and she would not question his ability to take her life if it meant evading a return to incarceration. Didn't bloody well matter how much he liked her…  
  
There was no point in beating around the bush. "Then what?" Starling asked bluntly. "You know I can't just walk out of here once all is said and done, Doctor. I have a job to do."  
  
"Actually, right now, you are on vacation," he reminded her. A quiver raced through her as he stepped forward. One step. Nothing more. "We will cross that bridge when we come to it, Clarice. I am more interested in getting settled for the evening."  
  
"Settled?"  
  
"For starters…" Then he was gone, pacing backward and drawing the knife finally off the floor, holding it up demonstratively, and she never saw it again. Where he kept it tucked, she didn't think to ask. "Secondly, I intend to rectify the growling in your stomach." Growling? She was answered with a sharp hunger pain. "And finally, sleeping arrangements. Not that I don't trust you, my dear, but—"  
  
"I'm on the couch." Starling held her breath in grim realization that she had just interrupted Hannibal the Cannibal. Likely not the best tactical move. Still, there was no way she was putting him between herself and the front door. Again, when she expected anger, she received humor instead. Another sigh of relief coursed through her.  
  
"Whatever you wish," Dr. Lecter replied nonchalantly.   
  
A sudden flicker and the room brightened with abrupt luminosity. She blinked her surprise before her eyes came into focus and she saw him standing beside the lamp. The first good look in several years. He was nothing of the man she had seen in Memphis. Out of prison garb: dressed instead in evening clothes, casual but classy. The doctor did not react to her scrutiny. She received the dry impression that he had seen her in the light a few times to his advantage more over the past three years.  
  
The look they shared crackled with intensity, and Starling felt herself freeze in a beat of suggestion. In the eyes of someone she had never truly expected to see again, she shivered—once again her dreams returning to haunt her. However, the moment did not last long. Dr. Lecter withdrew, grinning tightly to himself. "Please," he offered, "make yourself at home."  
  
Then he retreated into the kitchen, presumably to cook. Starling released a breath and attempted to focus. He was gone was gone, and so was the knife, however briefly, along with every chance she had ever had for a slab of blessed normality. She stood in the middle of the living area dumbly, distraught with uneasiness.   
  
Once more, the reality of her situation repeated, still not fully sinking in. The road to comprehension was long and wrought with denial.  
  
I am snowed-in with Hannibal Lecter, and he's making me supper.   
  
"No," she grumbled to herself. "My life isn't crazy."  
  
Denial was bliss.  
  
  
  


* * * 


	9. Get By With A Little Help From My

Author's Note: Contrary to popular belief, NO!  I am NOT dead.  Just really, really, really (add a million and a half 'reallys' here) busy.  It's amazing I found time to cook this up.  (Everyone out there does remember me, and the story, right?)  Bah, if not, just forget this entire author's note, sit back, enjoy, and wonder what the hell is going on.  Then, by chance, should you be interested, there are eight chapters preceding this one that will enable you to catch up.  So cancel the funeral.  I'm alive.  I never start something without finishing it—and, by god, I will finish this.  Even if it kills me. 

****

**Chapter Nine**

It was pointless attempting to convince herself at this point that light was visible through any tunnel.  Her evening with Dr. Lecter was quiet and awkward—intimidating like a mouse trapped in the corner with a hungry cat on the prowl.  Conversation was blunt and abbreviated.  She detoured to every side-road visible when he attempted to speak. 

The flippant attitude he so deliberately flaunted wore with annoying resilience on every remaining nerve.  How he could sit there, make idle chit-chat as though they were nothing more than old chums was blunt and beyond her.  The questions barbed in her direction were shaped with such innocence that one couldn't help but peer around the corner in search for the double-entendre.  Warning after warning voiced by Jack Crawford ticked through her mind with such unwitting clockwork that she felt several times willing to excuse herself if only to have a moments scream at her frustrations.  But no, that wouldn't do.  It was power the monster loved.  Controlled power.  Power he could exercise anywhere.  Even as they both were well aware the power was out of her hands, if she acknowledged the helplessness of her situation, there was simply no hope left.

She was forever housed on the edge of warning, watching him with a suspicious though intrigued gaze that both screamed curiosity and demanded distance.  The number of hours she had spent willfully picturing what he would do in his spare time was rather embarrassing.  Freedom, however expensive, was not wasted on Dr. Lecter.  No, no.  He enjoyed every breath of it.  The very humor of his disposition seemed radically changed.  He pried, of course.  Peered down every corridor of her confused life that she had not yet locked and picked away at every detail.  Her short and frank rebuttals did little to misdirect his attentions.  Through it all, he remained attentive and civil, disarmingly comfortable and driving her to the point that just for a minute, one minute, she might let loose and forget who it was that sat only a few feet away.

Almost.

The important thing was to remain attentive but civil.  Cold but not untouchable.  Not to make any move that would suggest she was about to clamor him over the back of the head with a candlestick in manner of Mrs. White in the drawing room. 

She thought of their exchange in Memphis during those rare minutes when he wasn't speaking.  Thought of what it was that had intrigued him so.  Things were far less disconcerting when a reliable set of bars was between them.  At least then, she could be herself and not worry about having to fend off a brassed cannibal should the wrong thing wander passed her lips.

"I know you must be tired, Clarice," he was saying as he stood to collect their tableware.  "You have had quite the adventure today.  Might I suggest some wine?  I find it to be most soothing right before I retire."

Starling barely heard the question.  Her mind was pacing rapidly; drawing up every token she had received over the past few years.  The letter following his escape, for one thing.  The headlines lacking in cannibalistic reports.  When it occurred to her that silence was likely not the answer he was looking for, her mouth formed a line and she politely shook her head.  "No…no, thanks, Dr. Lecter.  I…umm…I think I'd just rather…"

"Of course," he replied dismissively, disappearing for a short time into the kitchen.  "You must be swamped.  Do make yourself comfortable.  You did say the sofa, correct?  Understand, you are welcome to—"

"Yes, thanks.  I…the sofa…I'll…"

 "Very well."  He chuckled and gestured to the aforementioned divan.

Sometime between cooking and entertaining, Dr. Lecter had found time to make the settee comfortable for her.  It was bound in linen sheets and cushioned with goose-down pillows.  A glass of milk and two aspirin sat atop a coaster supported by the neighboring coffee table.  He had certainly gone to every effort.

Starling pursed her lips.  What exactly was there to say at such a radical 'oh-god-I-can't-believe-I'm-not-dreaming' moment?  Her earlier notion that perhaps this was some terrific ploy devised by her rebellious subconscious again screamed its right to existence and was similarly expelled from probability.  Dreams never felt this real.  Dreams never _were _this real.  This was certainly no dream.

"I wonder what your plans for tomorrow entail," Dr. Lecter continued civilly, moving passed her to suggest his own intentions for early withdraw.  "The roads are much too slick to attempt any form of travel, I'm afraid.  All more besides, I saw the condition in which you left your vehicle."

At that, she snickered.  She couldn't help it.  "Yeah.  Old Jack McArthur's gonna have a helluva time explaining that to the insurance company.  Well, serves him right for playing the Good Samaritan and lending his truck to a complete stranger."

The doctor rumbled in amusement.  "Quite right."  A subtle pause.  "You seem to have relaxed rather well, much to my pleasure.  Are you feeling better, Clarice, or have your acting abilities sharpened even more over the years since our last meeting?"

It was true.  Though her defenses were still up and in tact, the tenor of her general mood was melting from the frigid ice queen façade she wore in any situation that rendered her vulnerable.  Starling sighed and shook her head.  "Enough with the cross-examination, Doctor.  Can I just rest and try to forget this ever happened?"

"That will be quite a task.  I highly doubt you will awake to find yourself elsewhere."

"Hey, a girl can dream."  The flash of impatience that seared behind his eyes in affect would have gone unnoticed by anyone who wasn't looking for it.  Though the night wore early, she already felt like she was crossing boundaries that no one should even face.  With another heavy sigh, Starling flexed her arms apologetically, but could think of nothing to say.  She owed no explanation just as surely as he, stubborn or not, did not expect one.

"Yes…indeed."  Another pause—this one not nearly as comfortable.  She felt she had stepped into a freezer.  "Then I will leave you to yourself, Clarice.  Goodnight.  I do hope you rest well."

His presence remained long after he departed, somehow rendering the air colder than before.  And without having to try, Starling knew sleep was unobtainable.  Not when he was out of eyesight.  Not with the day she had to escape.  Not with the shadow of Clark McCallister, Paul Krendler, and a thousand others laughing at her for her fall.  Not when she had no sure guarantee outside his word that she would survive the night.

Then again, it _was_ best to trust his word.  Deceit was a quality Dr. Lecter abhorred, and she knew he would never dare cross the boundaries of his own consensus.  It was that acknowledgement alone that persuaded her to close her eyes and wish the world away.  To will herself in a pivotal state of reasoning where she was cradled in a warm bed, thousands of miles from here.  A place far, far from what was safe to call the worst vacation ever.

*          *          *

She was having that dream again.

It was perverse, dreaming of someone that was quite literally under the same roof, dreaming as though he were far away and catching him was simply a matter of cunning.  However, her subconscious refused to adhere to what her mind screamed with such fervor.  Yes, he was there with her in both spirit and body.  Dreaming it made little difference now, and yet the visions came with the same annoying insistence.

Her mind loved playing games with her.  In the heat of the night, she could remember every lasting detail from every dream provided from an inquisitive heart searching for the puzzle pieces to fix the tattered remains of her life.  Daylight presented no such illumination.  

When she awoke and every element of the previous day's horror came rushing back, Starling gritted her teeth and slammed her hand menacingly against the sofa cushions.  The fine line between reality and fantasy was very faint.  She was tired of having to guess what was actuality and what wasn't.  

The sky was still dark but she knew without needing to look that it was near morning.  It was 4:57—she was sure of it.  These past few days had allowed her no further sleep beyond that point.  If she stretched to gaze out the window, she might, perchance, see the faintest streak of gray; even that was doubtful.  Finding sleep now would be as close to a miracle as she had ever strayed, and with a reluctant yawn, Starling sat up.  The cabin looked no different in the morning than it had the evening before.  Her worn muscles were refreshed and craving that good morning's jog that she hated to deny herself.

Suddenly, her unspoken spider sense kicked into gear, and she knew without having to glance around that she was not alone.  Her initial reaction was—naturally—to jump up, kick him in the shins, and make a move for the door.  

That lasted only a few seconds.

With a sigh of resignation, Starling leaned back into the warmth of the bed he had prepared for her and stretched.  The hostility she craved had yet to find its way back into her voice.  Wherever it was, it was happy and obviously not missing her presence.  So long sweet hostility.  

"Good morning, Dr. Lecter."

"The same to you, Clarice.  I trust you had a pleasant repose?"

After what felt like years of practice, there still was no way to talk to this man.  Waking under his observant gaze was discomfiting and nurturing at the same time.  A sick, twisted part of her psyche must have enjoyed being watched over. Any sensical reply or attempt at cynicism abruptly left her throat, leaving her barren of all possible defenses.  "As pleasant as one can expect."

"I'm afraid the weather hasn't relented," he said without the slightest inkling of sorrow coating his tone.  Not that she was expecting it.  "If you look very carefully, you might see the top of your vehicle before it becomes another frozen monument, claimed by a well-timed Colorado snowstorm."

"Fantastic," Starling murmured, forcing herself up.  Indeed, it was still dark out.  As dark as someone would expect in this part of the country during the dead of winter.  "I'm going to have to get down there sometime today.  My cell phone…"

Without looking, she sensed the doctor's eyes light up with amusement.  "Is lost, my dear.  To attempt to recover it now—"

"I don't care.  I have to try." With stubborn buoyant, she finally faced him, aimed to match glares.  "Doctor, with as much as you might like our new arrangement, I do have some objection to spending the better part of winter cooped up here with someone who'd just as quickly kill me as look at me."

Lecter's eyes darkened and she felt a colder shudder overwhelm her.  "Shame on you," he berated softly.  "Did I not give you my assurance that denying the world your fiery presence would be kin to committing an atrocious act of discourtesy?  Your ignorance is charming but it would suggest otherwise.  It's a mask you wear quite well.  I am fond of you, Clarice.  I do not kill those whom I am fond of."

"All the better," she retorted.  "I strike a murderer's fancy.  This is me not swooning.  Do you have any idea how infuriating this is?  All I wanted was a simple vacation.  No big.  And the first thing that happens the moment I get of that little McCallister worm…" She trailed off, absently drawing loose strands of hair from her eyes.  "It hasn't even been…I'm terrified that I'm going to say the wrong thing or piss you off to the extremity of canceling out that fondness, and then what?"

"Oh, my dear, you have _already _said the wrong thing.  A thousand times over.  Acknowledging your fear to yourself is an act of consolation and growth.  Acknowledging your fear to the very thing you are afraid of gives me an unfair advantage."  Dr. Lecter paused.  "I'm wounded to think that you believe such a minor inconsistency would waver my standing in your favor.  Do you think so little of me?"

Starling's eyes widened.  "No, I don't.  Out of all the psychopathic madmen I've met, I must say you're my favorite."

At that she stopped, catching herself.  Either she had said the exact right thing or something very wrong had just given leave to the air.   When she felt she could speak again, she shook her head and cleared her throat.  "But that doesn't make you any less of what you are, Doctor.  It would be cruelty to keep me here against my will.  All I want to do is go home and crawl in bed."

"At what expense?"  He took a turn about the room, eyes trained on her like a hawk.  "Suppose, by a small twist of fate, you are successful in locating your phone.  Even finding a signal, whereas you could not last night, from what you related.  Your rescue is on its way.  Then what?"

She knew what he was asking but dared not venture down that path.  "I go home."

Dr. Lecter tilted his head in annoyance.  "You're avoiding the issue, Clarice."

"Well, what do you want me to say?  I'd let you go?  We both know the chances of that."  She rolled her eyes.  "And even so…say I do cut you a break…what would I tell whoever it was that gets me outta here?  Say I happened, very fortunately, to stumble across a cabin stocked with nice furniture, food, wine, cable television, that was mysteriously unoccupied?  That won't roll, Doctor."

"Precisely.  Why should I forfeit my freedom so you can have yours?"

At that, she grew cold, but her resolution didn't falter.  "Because it's right."

His chuckle was harsh and sent a shiver through every worn nerve in her body.  "If we start discussing the logistics of right and wrong, my dear, we will be here long enough for the snow to thaw."

"Looks that way, anyway."

"If you are adamant on searching for your phone, I will not stop you."  There was a familiar, patronizing twinkle in his eyes.  "You must do what you feel is _right, _of course.  After all we've been through, you should know I expect no less of you.  Go on, now.  I, in the meantime, will prepare breakfast."

Marie, the waitress at the diner and the last person linked to outside civilization, had warned her that she was ghastly unprepared for Colorado weather, and now Starling reflected dismally that advice from locals was usually the type you make a point to remember.  It seemed years had passed since her dangerous trek up the bank of snow to reach the cabin, and her insides trembled at the mere thought of making the journey again.  The night had not provided her with warmer clothing, and she very much doubted Dr. Lecter would be willing to supply additive insulation, considering the passage she wished to take.  She was surprised to discover a well-padded coat and snow boots three sizes too big waiting for her once finished with the customary morning preparations.  

Starling was suspicious of everything and everyone by nature.  It was the only way to guarantee a walk through a snake pit wouldn't resort in multiple bites from every angle.  She heard the snapping and the hisses, of course, but was very rarely scorned with a noticeable wound.     

To venture into the blizzard outside inadequately dressed was analogous to bungee jumping without a bungee.  No, if he were offering, she would not refuse him.  Bundling herself appropriately, Starling meekly thanked her temporary caretaker and reported that she should not take long.  The answer she received was awkwardly domestic.  Not even twenty-four hours had passed and she felt she was trapped in a bad sitcom.  _Married…With Corollary._

With a sigh, she prepped herself and stepped into the freezer that was the outdoors.

The journey downhill was easier than the hike had been to get to safety, but of course, that was a given.  A sheath of blinding white flashed her eyes without reserve, and several times, she toppled and crested a Starling-shape in the new-fallen snow.  By the time she reached the truck, an hour had passed and the pleasant aroma of breakfasty-goodness drifted teasingly to her senses, reminding her that this insane voyage had, after all, been her idea.

Starling knew finding her phone in working order was a possibility that resided far from the realm of likelihood.  Her frustration the previous night had consigned it to the ground, and Mother Nature was doing her damndest to get in the way of any forthcoming escape.

For what felt like hours, she searched through the mounds of white powder.  Dr. Lecter had been kind enough to provide gloves for her mission, but she felt her skin numbing still, whether from the cold or basic suggestion.  The phone she found was a sorry sight; protected in a cavern of snow, not frozen but far from functional.  She needed to get it back to the cabin to thaw and charge before attempting to dial for help.  

The charger itself was inside the truck, and she had forgotten to bring the keys.  Starling cursed loudly and expressed her frustration on the frost-covered hood, her insides shivering with a sudden blast of cold.  After a few seconds of steady breathing, she concluded that the vehicle was rendered more or less useless anyway, and bursting the window couldn't add too much to her already-substantial bill.  With everything she needed in possession, the worn agent huffed another air and began the slow climb upward.

Paved tracks and training areas were the arenas she was accustomed to.  No one could accuse Starling of being out of shape.  However, the comfort of home was lost in these mountains.  She had not ventured so far in such conditions since she was little, and even then, only a small comparison could be made.  Patches of snow disguised the deeper dips, and she, at times, found herself swallowed waist-deep where only previously the trudge had accumulated precipitation to her knees.  The skies opened once more and released a second inundation of tiny bright specks.  Everything darkened and it became dreadfully cold. 

When she was halfway there and nearly blind with conflicting flakes of white, Starling saw a figure moving toward her through the mass.  It was Dr. Lecter; bundled securely and having, it seemed, no trouble navigating across the landscape.  No words escaped his lips; he merely took her into his arms and carried her the rest of the way to the cabin.

"Thanks," she murmured dejectedly as he provided a comforter over her shoulders and offered a smoldering cup of hot chocolate.

"You were going to catch your death," the doctor replied simply.  "I could hardly allow that.  Is your phone functioning?"

"It will be here soon, I think."

"Then I will not keep you." Standing, he headed again for the kitchen.  "Would you care for breakfast?"

His willful distancing was beginning to wear on her suspicions.  Starling took a long sip and nodded.  "Yes, please."

"My pleasure." And he disappeared again.  

Breakfast was enjoyable though silent.  She ate by the window, glancing at the human imprints made in the snow.  The truck was gone now; vanished from sight beneath a swell of white.  She hesitated to think of the condition she would find the seats in, should she escape this discomfiting situation.  

An hour passed before the phone was in a state to transmit a call.  Her first attempt was naturally 911, but the signal failed in mid-ring.  

"Don't discourage, Clarice," Dr. Lecter assured her icily when he gauged her forlorn expression.  "If you scream loud enough, long enough, someone will eventually hear you."

"We're too far away," Starling replied, more to herself.  "What's the area code?"

His eyes illuminated with good humor.  "My, my, aren't we getting desperate?"

She sighed in exasperation and lowered the phone.  "Doctor, please don't—"

"By all means.  719.  You might want to try a number that begins with three."  He stood to vacate the room, holding her eyes for a long, powerful beat.  At once, Starling felt her blood humming through her veins and her insides quaked in affect.  She had never denied the ferocity of his gaze, but similarly, had failed to recognize the power behind it.  When he finally turned to leave her in peace, she shuddered, took a minute to compose herself, and dialed the first random number that came to mind.  The plan was by no means her best, but it was the only one available.

It rang, and well.  Clear as a bell and better.  She released a long contained huff of victory breath and felt her tense shoulders relax for what felt like the first time in weeks.  At that moment, it didn't matter who picked up as long as the voice on the other end came attached with legs and a driver's license.  

By the fourth ring, however, no one had answered.  The cold fingers of dread once again grasped her, but she was not overly dismayed.  If this led to a dead-end, she had plenty of number combinations to explore.  There had to be one that—

The line suddenly clicked, followed by the sound of a minor collusion.  A deep, male voice filled the line, surprisingly British in heritage and—without having to hear more than one word—she understood he supremely lacked etiquette.  "Oh, bloody hell," he swore lightly.  The tone was casual.  "Sorry 'bout that, mate.  Jus' stubbed my…oh bugger it.  'Ello?"   

"Ummm…yes.  Hello.  You don't know me.  I work with the FBI, and—"

"The FBI?" the voice repeated skeptically.  "Right, then.  Listen—"

"I crashed my truck last night on ice."  Yes, yes…then what?  _I'm stuck with a psychopathic madman?  I'm sure that'll go over well.  _"I…"

"Oh.  Right.  Durin' the storm, I'm guessin'."  The man sighed and rustled.  "How'd you get this number?"

"I didn't get it. I just randomly dialed."

"Oh, bit o'luck then.  You did try jus' callin' fo' help, right?  The conventional way that usually brings about the experienced in this sort of matter."

"Of course."  She flushed a bit in frustration.  "Listen, I just need some assistance.  If you could call the police or something…a tow truck, _anything _that would get me out of this…my cell's signal doesn't seem to want to go that far."

"Wouldn't rightly doubt it, either.  Closest town innit for a while, leas' tha's what I've been told."  The man laughed a deep, humorless chuckle.  "Pet, I doubt I could get a signal any better than you could.  I'm from outta town."  Like she couldn't tell that.  "Jus' 'ere visitin' with some ole chaps.  Where you stranded at?  We might…uhhh…hold on."

There was, what sounded like, a brief struggle for possession of the phone.  

"Sorry."  A female voice this time—notably American and rather young sounding.  "William gets…out way too much.  Can I help you?"

_Finally.  _"Yes, please.  I crashed my truck somewhere on…" Goddammit.  It wouldn't do to forget the highway.  "Somewhere between…Florence and Colorado Springs.  I know I'm putting…if someone could either contact someone or get help in some way, I'd really appreciate it."

In the background, she heard the same male voice, presumably William, bellow, "Don' know if I'd listen to her, luv.  Says she's from the FBI, an' what all.  Ask 'er what she's doin' 'ere."

"Sp…Will, shut up."  An aggravated growl rumbled through the girl's throat.  "Sorry again.  We honestly need to muzzle him.  Now, between Florence and Colorado Springs, you say?"

"Yes ma'am."

"That's a lot of road to cover—" 

"Bloody right, it is," the male voice growled from a distance.

The girl went on as if he hadn't spoken.  "Anything more specific?"

Hope was beginning to slip again, but she refused to concede.  "There's a cabin here but it doesn't have a phone, and my cell's not cooperating enough to reach the nearest town or police station.  Since this number picked up, I'm assuming you have to be near."  She sighed.  "I know it's a lot to ask, especially from a stranger, but I'm…desperate." _This is the part when you tell the nice woman that you're stuck with a convicted felon who has occasional cannibalistic tendencies.  _Yet the words would not come.  

"Bollocks," the Cockney voice sneered.

Starling frowned.  "Is he on another line or something?"

"Erm…no.  He just…is sitting really close to me.  Listen, I'll do my best.  Really.  You sound…well, I can't judge everyone on how they _sound, _but I get tinglies about this sort of thing."  The girl sighed, and the agent could almost hear her shaking her head in apology.  "I'll try to contact someone.  If not…we'll get you out of there somehow.  It just might take a while.  What's your name?"

"Clarice Starling."

"Oh…OH!  Right.  With that guy…who did that thing…I remember hearing about you.  Didn't you just do that big transfer with—"

"Clark McCallister, yes."

"Psycho?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."  Starling eyed the door through which Dr. Lecter had disappeared.  "How long do you think?"

"Well, honestly, we're from out of town, anyway.  Sort of here on business.  I don't know how much easier it's going to be for us to reach any authorities.  The storm knocked out most of the phone lines."  There was a grumble.  "Aly…my friend Alyson, was able to get things connected enough to receive…so yeah…you should be close."

"Good.  You have no idea how much I—"

Once more, the male voice decided to intervene.  "'Ey, luv!  Y'almost finished?  _Passions_ 'll be on 'ere in a jiffy."

The girl grumbled again.  "Actually, I think I do have an idea.  Wouldn't want to be stuck out there with anyone…you wouldn't want to be stuck out there with.  All right, Ms. Starling.  Is it Miss or Agent?"

"Officer, actually."

"Well, Officer Starling…I'm Anne Summerville.  We're in a big van so keep your eyes peeled over the next couple days.  I'll see what I can do."

A smile spread across her face.  "Thanks."

They weren't locals, but Starling was beginning to have the sense that everyone she met on this trip was tainted with a sort of mystical hospitality.  She knew not to get her hopes up.  However far her signal reached, she wasn't sure.  The matter of _when _her rescue arrived was in comparison to the large _if _weighing over the equation.

_You didn't tell them about Dr. Lecter._

"There's no use in worrying over that now," she told herself, unaware she was speaking aloud.  "Once…if someone comes…hiding him won't be easy."

However, the scene looked grim.  Starling, always the pessimist, felt her hope beginning to slide.  It was only a matter of time.  That and convincing herself that she was doing what was right.

Time.


	10. Yellow Brick Road

Author's Note: Well, I banked two months in between chapters and shot for five. My bad.  
  
Also my apologies. Admittedly, other projects have been directing my attention away from this fic. For anyone who checks Hannah's non-Lectery fiction board, you know what I'm talking about (and consequentially from where I pulled the supplementary characters added in the previous chapter). It wasn't intentional; it just happened. I've had a blast here - made friends I hope to keep in contact with and will avidly continue to read and reply to assorted stories. However, granted how long it has taken me to finish this, it will likely be my last contribution to the fandom. And I promise to finish it - I don't care how long it takes.  
  
Such was not an easy decision to come to. I wrestled with it for a few months while struggling to find my voice in this story once more.   
  
This chapter is dedicated to Helene, to whom I wish a speedy recovery.  
  
_Previously in_ **Stella-Attraversato:** Clarice Starling, snowed-in with Hannibal Lecter after conducting a prison transfer to Florence, Colorado, makes a desperate, arbitrary phone-call for assistance. Contact established, she must decide what to do with Dr. Lecter when/if the aforementioned help arrives.  
  
  
  


Chapter Ten

  
  
  
To say her nerves were calmed by the reassurance of impending help was a lie, but the thought did provide some strain of warmth. The knowledge that, as she had discovered in her journeys throughout Florence, people could surprise you with sudden bursts of generosity. Of compassionate human understanding.   
  
It was only a matter of time. Of placing as much space between herself and the doctor as humanly possible. Of rearranging her thoughts while trying to decide what the best course of action would be concerning her temporary host, when and if help did arrive.   
  
There was more to it than that. It was a matter of time, calculation, and hope.  
  
She couldn't leave him and she couldn't well take him alone. That was just asking for trouble. With her belongings discarded in an island of snow, she rather doubted he would be good enough to provide her with the necessary restraints. No. It was one or the other. No medium to consider. Nothing as a basic alternative.  
  
Where did that leave her?   
  
"I trust your phone call was productive," Dr. Lecter greeted as she joined him in the kitchen. Starling arched a brow at his discernment, determined that anyone could have translated the relief flooding her features. "Daresay, I don't believe I have ever seen you quite this…at ease."   
  
"Forgive me when I say relaxing those around you is not among your higher qualities," she replied, sitting at the chair opposite of him.   
  
At that, his eyes flickered with interest. "But you, my dear, appear to be most content. I must be doing something right."  
  
There was something she didn't want to concede. A long breath rolled off Starling's chest as she pulled a chair out of the kitchen table arrangement, floating to a seat. "Well," she drawled once a coherent response was pieced together. "I'll admit, the accommodations could be worse than what was provided. That and you haven't yet done something to make me wish my gun was in reach."  
  
A sliver of irritation flashed behind his eyes: enough to make her catch herself but not enough to provoke fear. His word was sufficient for that. For the knowledge of her continued safety. The acceptance that he would allow her to leave when the opportunity arose. If her salvation could brave the icy roads without managing to drive into a ditch and require their own rescue. Without managing to blow her call off for lack of caring for someone so blissfully unconnected to them.   
  
A way to get out of this bizarre situation before the chance was granted to let things become even stranger.  
  
Dr. Lecter would allow that because he was a gentleman. First and foremost. She had once spent an inactive stakeout debating whether he was more offended at the slanderous cannibal insults hurled from every which direction or the insinuation that he was not well versed in the manner of proper etiquette. Both answers led her down further paths of questioning, but she had not allowed herself to explore. If she opened her mind to that side of logic, it risked corruption of minor proportion. Minor, but any sort of suggested lenience to what Crawford jokingly called The Dark Side frightened her beyond belief.   
  
Whether or not he ever admitted it aloud—or to himself, for that matter—Starling had the vague conception that one of her employer's concerns enveloped the possibility of such seduction. It had happened once before on a degree of minimalism with the one before her. Special Agent Graham: a man both praised and frowned upon in matters of the Bureau. To say he was seduced by what was before him struck her as grossly unfair. It was the consensus of many when they met for coffee but she doubted anyone actually believed it. She doubted even the prestigious and still-missing Dr. Chilton could have undergone such scrutiny—not to mention unscheduled facial surgery—without having the mother of all breakdowns.  
  
And now here she was. Their situations were not similar; she doubted Graham could successfully hold his wits about him were he trapped with Dr. Lecter. Odd how two distantly related people could have such a variety of experience where the same man was concerned. The same mad murderer of god-knows-how-many who was currently chopping at peppers for the omelet he was preparing with what looked to be a not-so-dull kitchen knife.   
  
Little details like that were slipping at an alarming rate. Details that she should not forgo, despite whatever situation she found herself in. A very capable killer was only feet away, wielding an object that was—true—neither aimed for her or likely to be, but such failed to dismiss the weight of responsibility irrefutably placed on her shoulders.   
  
When he spoke again, she was not sure. He might have been speaking throughout the duration of her reverie—drawn and ignored because his voice was constantly housed in her head, whether or not he was in the same room. Starling avoided jumping at her latest inward revelation; instead focused intently on the words pouring from the madman's mouth.   
  
"I've often wondered since our last parting if you ever found a cap for your extreme odds of mistrust," he was saying. "Have I not made it perfectly clear that no harm will come to you while you're under this roof? Really, Clarice. You do know how I abhor repeating myself."  
  
The crafty construction of a reply. The willful fall into the face of old habits. It was familiar in a way she detested. Shivers of remembrance traced her spine in cold consternation.   
  
And yet that one voice persisted that with the variety of ways to push his buttons, the thing that would anger him the most was undoubtedly anything that suggested slinking back from her sense of self. The promise that the world was interesting with her in it reserved more than ample reassurance. That, and there was that annoying tendency to believe what the doctor said. What he promised. Despite numerous indiscretions, she had never caught him in the middle of a lie that was not planned or provoked. That was there for the sheer malice of personal benefit in manner of a free meal rather than the more pushing issues of imminent freedom.   
  
"I thought you liked me on my toes, Doctor."  
  
There were a number of ways that could be answered; luckily, he did not pursue any of them.  
  
Things grew awkwardly quiet.  
  
"How long do you suspect it will take for your saviors to pinpoint your location?" was the next question. "I'll confess, while your persistence is most endearing, the extremes you are willing to take are rather telling. Don't you think it a tad unlikely that a band of traveling stranglers will be able to pinpoint your exact location in the midst of this mess?"  
  
The voicing of all her fears. Starling knew it was a gamble. She knew it was impossible. She knew that she had—in all likelihood—just asked the first willingly naïve civilian to waste precious time trying to isolate her precise position. To arbitrarily search the already-dangerous roads for the first sign of a turned over truck and hope that she wasn't the only vacationer that got detoured once the snow started falling.  
  
Furthermore, the matter required a certain measure of trust on the shoulders of people she didn't know. Therein lied the problem. Trusting such important issues to people was a risky gamble. People were—by definition—a loud, corruptible bunch that said one thing while secretly plotting another. Her voyages thus far had led her into the belly of the beast, had introduced her to wannabe madman Clark McCallister, had provided her with a vehicle that consequentially lay under a mountain of snow at the foot of the hill, and delivered directly into the hands of authentic madman Hannibal Lecter.  
  
From all the philosophy she had taken, Starling was most certainly not laughing. And even if he did not betray it in his cool-as-a-cucumber tenor, she had the unnerving feeling that a certain doctor was.   
  
  


*~*~*

  
  
"Are you outta your bleedin' mind?!"  
  
Anne Summerville rolled her eyes, tossing the phone to the sofa. It was in her character to ignore anything and everything that came out of William's mouth—especially given the nature of his random complaints and not-so-insightful observations. The sound of his soap opera perturbed the otherwise idyllic mountain air.  
  
"It shouldn't take long, all right?" she replied without looking at him. The room was filled with her companions, entangled in their own work or too compliant to care about a small change in plans. "She needs help. Honestly, you act like—"  
  
"I jus' don't see why 's any of our concern," he retorted, huffing indignantly. "Some random bird gets 'erself into a mess, an' you leap off your sodding white horse to come an' save the day. Don' even bother to ask the rest of your friends who—"  
  
Alyson Green looked up from her book. The kitchen area was small and expanded into the living room; the five travelers were experiencing a quiet but very obvious epidemic of cabin fever. "Will," she berated, fighting off a yawn. "Honestly, it's not like it's a huge inconvenience. Besides, you'd do the same…" She trailed off thoughtfully. "Oh wait. No, you wouldn't."  
  
"Precisely! You can leave me outta your bloody do-gooder work."  
  
"Ordinarily, I would agree," Anne replied, eyes narrowing. "But we were going to leave in three days anyway. It'd be pointless to have to swing all the way back here and pick you up."  
  
A darker voice—however emasculated in shadows—offered an obvious solution. "We could always leave him."  
  
"Yeh. You'd like that."  
  
"All too much."   
  
"There really is no sense in arguing." Alyson rose to her feet with a stealthy sigh, forgoing any hope of completing the chapter she had been working on for the past twenty minutes with no luck. "We're here. She's here…or not here…that being the problem and everything. Right. She's there, somewhere, and we're going to help. Case closed." A visible shudder shook her frame—head to toe. "Besides, out there, in this weather…I'd hate to turn on the news some night and hear about The Donner Party: The Sequel." Another quiver touched her every nerve, and she earned a sympathetic glance from Anne's direction. The sort that screamed moral support from every angle. "The thought just gives me the willies."  
  
William snickered, unaffected by her discomfort. "Jus' got no stomach to you, 's all."  
  
"Enough." That voice came from the shadows in the custom sense of stern and foreboding. The apex of an old brooder who had way too much time to spare with miniscule concerns rather than focus on the picture at large. While the man behind the statement was not one to vocally share an opinion unless otherwise inquired, it managed to portray as a minor annoyance that he could be so presumptuous. "She's in trouble. We've told her that we're coming. That's that."  
  
That statement earned an expected eye-roll. "So bloody typical of you, Liam. 'Ohh, that bird's in a spot of trouble. Well looky there…seems to be downright impossible to get to her.'" A sardonic gleam. "Right on. Talked me into it. Let's go."  
  
"Guys." A new judgment from one of monotonous character. Alyson's husband, Daniel, took a weary seat beside her. As newlyweds, it was some god-given law of nature that sitting next to each other rapidly transcended into a magnetic charge that brought them side-by-side. His arm stretched around her so he could play with the wisps of hair tickling the base of her throat. "It sounds like a done deal. The point of arguing about said done deal would be…?" When he received no reply, a shrug waved through his shoulders. "Doesn't really matter anyway. It was, after all, my van that was volunteered. Seems to me everyone's pretty dependent on me to get home." The last part of his resolution was said very directly to William, who scoffed indignantly at the idea of being left behind.  
  
"You wouldn't," he growled.  
  
"Oh, he's a wild man," Alyson offered with a grin.   
  
"Hides it well."  
  
Daniel shrugged once more. So much was true. The color of a thousand emotions was buried under the same tenor. It could not be helped, and was often a source of the highest entertainment when put into question. "I've been told that."  
  
"This is just a suggestion." That was the last of the travelers. Alexander LeVille, fondly known as Alex. The not-so bickering from the back had at last drawn his attention from the television—a mistake as William seized command almost immediately, snapping the channel from whatever sports event was being viewed to tune into Passions. The fight, on his part, was hence considered abandoned. Such was the custom when something better came on the telly. "But from what I heard, that lady…what was her name?"  
  
"Clarice Starling," Anne provided. "You remember her. She interviewed that Lecter guy a few years back. The one that escaped?"  
  
"Hannibal the Cannibal? The cannibal? The cannibal as in, 'I get my rocks off by eating people'?"  
  
"That's generally what cannibal means," Daniel observed. "Unless they changed the definition on me overnight. Hate it when that happens."  
  
Another shudder from Alyson and she buried herself in the comfort of her husband's embrace. "Geez. Now I am getting yuck pictures. Why did I have to mention the Donners?"  
  
Alex nodded, then frowned in mutual disgust. "Second that. Now I'm getting images. It's a yuck-image fest! Big old bucket of yuck. Fantastic. Why did you have to mention that?" When he caught the stern supervision he was receiving from his immediate audience, he shook his head, fought to remember what he was saying, then continued. "Anyway, beside the point. In this weather, I'm guessing anything goes. We should probably…you know…head out early. Just in case and everything. Seriously wouldn't want Miss-I-Associate-With-Cannibals to be stuck out here. Who knows—"  
  
"Oh, I dunno," William offered, tearing his eyes from his program long enough to voice yet another inane opinion. "That'd be worth the laugh. 'F I remember right, those bloody tabloids tore her apart—right from head to toe. It'd be funny as hell to—"  
  
"We are not leaving a person out here to die or…or something really bad just because you think it'd be funny to read about in the Enquirer or the Tattler. Okay?" Anne's voice was nearly a growl now. He had the ability to do that to her. "Alex is right. There's no use fiddling around here for three days. Let's pack it up tonight if we can."  
  
Compliance from everyone save the lone voice of opposition served as the tying knot. The sealed deal. They would leave as soon as possible. Lord knew it would be hell to get stuck in a situation like this with the wrong person.


End file.
